


Proskynesis

by Teaandcakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A sniff of Mystrade, Anxiety, Drug Use, Explicit Sex, Explicit criticism of bad puddings, Incest between adult Sherlock and adult Mycroft, M/M, More tags to be added maybe as we go, NO character deaths, No Underage Sex, Prostitution, Rape is not between the two brothers, Sibling Incest, Slow Build, holmescest, sick!fic, underage sexual thoughts though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 58,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft were two parts of the same whole. </p><p>When Sherlock fell ill, it blocked the path of growth and separation that normally happens with siblings as they grow up and leave the nest.</p><p>And if you fear that your brother might not live long into adulthood, how can you refuse him his deepest wish. At least, that's what Mycroft whispered in the long dark nights after it had all gone to hell....</p><p>STANDALONE HOLMESCEST FIC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Proskynesis : the traditional Persian practice of prostration before a person of superior rank 
> 
> Author's note: I have wanted to write Holmescest for a long time, as it's the only credible Sherlock x other than Johnlock. I nearly went there in the Beyond Ourselves series, but the Mycroft in that series just wouldn't have. I know, because I wrote it and he shouted out to me from the page that he might be tempted but he would not in the end yield.
> 
> This is a different story, and in this, Mycroft is younger, more vulnerable, with less of a rudder of experience and confidence to steer his moral compass. His brother is his world, and he is lonely and shy. Their coming together is not without consequence, however.

It was a cold, wet November evening. Those who could, were in their cars, or in glowing buses, or huddled on overcrowded station platforms, or steaming unpleasantly pressed against the torsos of strangers in the Tube. Commuters streamed like so many black and grey ants over the bridges, London, Cannon, Blackfriars, Waterloo, and the rest, desperate to escape as quickly as they could. London's mass of human life was returning to the burrows and forms, setts and dreys they liked to call hom, deep in the suburbs. 

Alone amongst the seething mass of bodies at South Kensington, a small boy, thin and pale, dark curls framing a profile more beautiful than handsome, sat on the slatted mahogany bench, swinging his legs under the seat. A battered violin case and a satchel, scarcely less battle-scarred, sat next to him. An onlooker might have glanced at him and pronounced perhaps seven or eight years old. In fact, he was ten, ("Nearly eleven") but had yet to experience the growth spurt in height to match the loss of his puppy fat. It was about to come, though, and when it did, strangers’ friendly glances would turn to unguarded stares, and indulgent smiles become appraising and serious regard. But there were events to take place before that would happen.

This small slight boy wasn't waiting for a train. His name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And he was waiting for his brother. 

...............

At length, far too long a length in his opinion, the platform emptied as rush hour subsided. But it was another hour or more later that Mycroft Holmes' tall figure and sharp features appeared, exiting from one of the noisy, trundling escalators. Clearly from his expression, he didn't frequent Underground stations, even the slightly better class ones on the yellow and green lines...his look of distaste was unchanging, no matter how many times they did this.

All the waiting was over. The silent small figure came to life. Clad in frankly ill-fitting blazer and shorts, he ran down the platform as fast as his satchel and violin case would allow. They banged against his back and his knees. He didn't care.

'Myc!! You're late!' 

'Sherlock. There was some difficulty at work. You know how this works.'

Sherlock wasn't cross. He had already forgotten the two hours he had sat in the stifling heat, staring at an advert for cheap deodorant and its neighbour, a garish promotion of the benefits of same day hernia surgery in Ealing. The reassuring gaze of Hernia Consultant would wait for another day.

Mycroft was wearing a three piece suit, as always and looked immaculate, in so much as one can do in London in November. It was dark grey, with a white shirt, double cuff,and a gold woven silk tie with a pattern of tiny black chess pieces. A pocket handkerchief, also gold, and a plain black umbrella with carved wooden handle completed the ensemble. Not one of these elements would be emulated by his brother as he himself matured. His style was to be all about the shirt (single cuff, too tight, designer not Jermyn Street) and the suit (no tie, suit from Jermyn Street this time and yes, bespoke, but far too Hollywood a cut for Mycroft’s tastes). Definitely no handkerchief and who needed an umbrella when there were taxis to be taken everywhere you needed to go?

Sherlock knew his brother, some seven years older than himself, was the last word in formal style. He loved it because it was Mycroft and it was different to him and yet part of him, a complement to himself. He also knew that his brother was slipping away from him, out of his grasp. 

..............

They had always been close, really, right from the evening when Mycroft was met from the end of Michaelmas half term at his prep school by Mummy and Daddy, to be told that he was going have a brother. Of course William, (or Sherlock as he and Mycroft insisted on using his middle name), wasn't there then. But it was the idea of it for Mycroft; not to be lonely any more, to have someone who could understand him, that right from the start created a hot little spark deep inside his usually calm and emotionless demeanour. It slightly shocked him, then, and continued to do so ever since.

It waned a little, to be honest, as Mummy got more heavily pregnant because Mummy was fun. Not so much once she was the size of a Mini. It didn't stop him waiting anxiously for the birth though, even though some of his friends thought that parents should have stopped all that by now, pregnancy being the vile evidence that your parents actually copulated. In the house. Where you lived.

………

The night Sherlock was born, at home in the huge gothic house on the Embankment, the sole survivor of the Great Fire of all the grand houses that had stood here before 1666, Mycroft was trying to concentrate on his Ancient Greek homework. However, although the rhapsode boarded the boat along with Dikaiopolis and Sdenothemis, bound for Euboia, Mycroft never found out that night what happened when they got there. The rhapsode was no doubt telling fables and tales to the ship's crew, but for Mycroft, the unmistakeable and unfamiliar sound of a baby's shriek meant that for the first time in his life, this homework would be late and scrappy. 

When he was allowed to see the baby, later that evening, he was amazed to see how tiny it was. But he was relieved he had a brother. He was aware that his social skills with girls were limited, and girls were so much quicker and livelier, and he would be bound to be ridiculed for his odd, bookish ways. 

They let him hold William, and although he didn't much like the smell of overly warm room and baby excretions and lotions and potions, he did fall in love the moment the unhappy scrap was placed, all bundled up in shawls, into his arms.

'Are you going to be a team, then Mycroft?' His father, eyes sparkling with joy and emotion, patting him on the head. 'You and William, you two against the rest of the world?' 

Mycroft didn't know what to say to that. His heart was too full to speak. The baby's eyes were closed, but now they opened, and regarded him critically. He felt as if his soul was bared to the world.

..............

 

When they got back to the Manor and in through the huge studded front door, it was cold. It always was. Their parents believed that central heating was akin to a death sentence to old buildings and those who choose to live within their walls and Daddy wouldn't hear of it anyway because it would ruin the thousands of faded leather-bound volumes in the library. There were open fires in some rooms; the Clean Air Act apparently not applying to the Holmes residence. Once, a man from the council turned up and Mummy gave a performance worthy of Dame Peggy Ashcroft. "You mean these aren't smokeless briquettes? Just ordinary coal? Poor quality kitchen nuts. I can't believe it!" 

The fires were laid every morning by a tiny smiling Romanian lady who spoke very little English and flitted from room to room like a non resident ghost. No one was quite sure when she had started working at the Manor, but she seemed to do everything, from carrying coal buckets to wielding damp crumpled newspaper and white vinegar to clean the uneven tiny panes of mouth blown glass in the small leaded light windows. Some of the windows were bricked up, sacrificed to avoid paying the Window Taxes of earlier centuries. The house could have done with their light.

Mycroft managed quite well with the freezing climate in the house. He was tall and well-built and when they had him Mummy and Daddy were a bit more present, in all senses. They went away, regularly of course, on lecture tours for Mummy and fishing and archaeology for Daddy, but they were at home most of the time. There was regular food, and conversation and Mycroft could discuss his prep with them over breakfast, which was filling and formal with silver tureens and spoons you could see your funny reflection in.. 

It wasn't so good by the time William arrived. 

Mummy felt she should give up the high profile academic world to look after her children, but the decision left her rudderless and robbed of her first love of mathematics. It was gradual at first, and it took a long time for anyone to notice because she was always regarded as Vague by acquaintances. She slipped gradually away from them, down into a cycle of depression and deep anxiety which seemed to drain her of all energy or interest, her priority to hide from the world and its demand of her. By the time Mycroft collected Sherlock that dark damp night in November, they saw so little of her that sometimes she seemed to Sherlock to be another ghost, like the Romanian housekeeper lady. He dreamed about her more than he saw her in person, he realised much later.

Their father might have stepped into the breach, should have done, but instead there was talk overheard by the gardener of his seeing another woman, an old friend of his. Helen. Mummy had always distrusted her, calling her "fast". Mycroft knew what that meant. Sherlock didn't, but he could smell her scent (bluebells and spices) on his father's neck when he leaned down to straighten Sherlock's tie. Mycroft despised his father for abandoning his wife when she needed him most. Mycroft just wanted to get out. He couldn't take Sherlock with him, but he worried for him. Holmes Manor was no longer any place for a child. 

Sherlock was not thriving now, Mycroft could tell. He was bony and always looked cold. He was disorganized, always arriving without some item of uniform and never wore a coat, even in the depths of winter. He coughed, his nose ran and it was shortly after he met Sherlock at South Ken station that evening, Sherlock first became properly unwell.


	2. Sherlock falls ill. His brother is there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes unwell, and Mycroft cares for him.

They took a taxi home that night. They usually walked part of the way, but it was raining. Even in the short walk up and out of the station though, Sherlock seemed to dawdle, which wasn't unusual, he liked to look at things that took his fancy; but there was something different, something that struck Mycroft as odd. Sherlock started complaining of feeling tired and his legs hurting and Sherlock never seemed to mention things like that. Like a prey species of animal, he hid any weakness for fear of predators. 

So when they got home, Mycroft tried to persuade him to go to bed, to rest and recover, as "he probably had flu". He'd never really had it before, not badly, but Mycroft concluded silently it was just Sherlock's turn. 

His parents were away again and the housekeeper lived out, had done for a few weeks since her elderly mother became unwell, so they were both completely alone and not on anyone's radar. Mycroft was an adult of course, if only just and they were both intelligent. It would be fine. Sherlock refused to go and rest, although he did agree to his violin lesson that evening being cancelled. Once that was done and having dressed himself in his soft flannel bee pyjamas, much loved and much washed (if a bit bobbly), he trailed listlessly around the house after Mycroft as his brother flicked through the uninteresting day's post, peeled away the uniform of the office and dressed in what, for him, counted as casual attire.

For once, Sherlock didn't chatter as his brother changed. It was a ritual between them, when Mycroft came back from work. Sherlock would perch on the flame mahogany bow front bureau and Mycroft would undress and then, just as meticulously, dress. Today, Sherlock was not absorbed in his own account of the state of his universe. His aching head didn't allow it. Instead, he just watched quietly as his brother carefully removed and hung up his suit and tossed his shirt to the linen basket for cleaning. 

Mycroft was self conscious about his figure. He knew he was too heavy even for his lofty height, that his nose was too beak-like and his hair was that gingery light brown colour that brought with it freckles and sunburn and the conviction that the fates had not played fair with him when it came to genes. As a result, Mycroft had made no attempt to seek out any potential romantic or sexual partner. And they hadn't exactly beaten down his door. He wondered if he, or they would ever be any different.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was the opposite of his own identity. When he looked at Sherlock, Mycroft saw the flip side of his own genes. Where he was sharp and spiky, pointed in features and manner, Sherlock was slender, like a willow and his profile was classical in its beauty. His hair was dark, too, the only concession to ginger being the hair Mycroft had seen starting to grow under his arms and (presumably) between his legs. It was early for puberty to start and precocious, but that was Sherlock all over. He might not have shot up in height yet, but he was streets ahead in some other ways.

Today, robbed of his customary conversation, Sherlock sat perched on the bureau and contemplated his brother. Usually Mycroft ignored him, but today even with his headache he noticed his brother's brief glances. 

Mycroft looked away as soon as he recognised that his looking was discovered. He didn't know why he looked away, it had never been an issue, this easy familiarity. They were brothers, for Heaven's sake. He got on with his clothes folding and put it out of his mind.

..................

Having eventually managed to get a fractious and grumbling Sherlock into his room, the attic at the top of the house, all angles and corners, Mycroft gazed around for a moment before he left the flushed and fractious boy. The room had once been his own nursery, when the Holmes had been a united and formidable team. There had been a Nanny then too and a few relics remained, the attached bathroom, the faded mobiles turning slowly in the chill draught from the poorly fitting windows. Mostly now, though, it was Sherlock's domain, all intricate treasures and chaos. There were home-made miniature theatre sets, excessively complicated model railway layouts and homemade scaled-down ships with full rigging and pirates attacking, swarming up the sides of the vessels. There were chemistry sets and posters of ballet dancers, Jonathan Cope, Mikhail Baryshnikov and the like, as well as cacti and bizarre spiky carnivorous plants on the windowsill. And there were shelves and shelves of books, some looking far too old to be genuinely interesting and which smelled of mustiness but all of which Mycroft knew for a fact Sherlock had read several times.

He smiled to himself and pulled the door closed. The couple of aspirin he'd doled out wouldn't do much, but might bring down the fever somewhat and he hoped his brother would be feeling better in the morning.

...............

Usually Sherlock was up long before the rest of the Holmes family, especially in the summer. Sometimes even before dawn he was out in the gardens or in the meadow, collecting bugs or birdwatching. He was invariably dressed in shorts and a T shirt, the former navy cotton and the latter in all kinds of bright shades. Mycroft shuddered at some of them. His shirts and ties were subdued and appropriate, which Sherlock's clothes certainly were not. Especially the ones that Mycroft thought were a little...effeminate. Lilac, for one, and several shades of pink, and the lemon yellow and the mint green. He wondered about Sherlock, with his flamboyance and style, but knew it was a cliche to make assumptions. 

Given Sherlock's usual routine, it was a surprise when Mycroft, the next to rise each morning, got out of bed the next day and having showered and dressed by six-thirty, found that his brother was nowhere to be seen. There was no spilt milk or scattered cornflakes or Rice Krispies on the table or floor; Sherlock was uninterested in food as a rule and though he was forced to make an exception for breakfast, he paid its preparation little heed and was always in a hurry and there was always a mess. 

A slight frown creased Mycroft's brow. He boiled the kettle and got out a mug. His little brother wouldn't drink tea or coffee either, only sweet thick hot chocolate which he drank when he finally returned to the house, often inexplicably cold and dripping after his morning forays. Thankfully there was now the godsend of instant hot choc, so it was as quick to prepare. Mycroft took the steaming mug and headed upstairs. He didn't have long before he needed to leave for work.

Sherlock's room was dark and at first Mycroft thought it empty. He went to switch on the light but as his hand reached up to the switch, a small voice, very unlike Sherlock's usually bubbling tones, whispered "Please don't switch on the light, Myc?" The voice sounded close to tears. Then Mycroft noticed a faint sweet smell, one with a sharp note when it hit the back of his throat.

Mycroft put down the cup on the bedside table and peeled back the blankets. Sherlock was there, dark circles under his eyes and flecks of something pale around dry cracked lips. He was all hunched up and grimacing. He looked upset. Ashamed, even, and Mycroft sank down on the edge of the bed. 

'Sherlock, what's wrong?'

Sherlock burst into tears. His words were partly swallowed by his sobs, but eventually he managed to tell the distressing tale. He whispered, and sounded pathetic and small.

'My head hurts. It was only a bit but now it's a lot. The light hurts. I was sick and I couldn't get to the bathroom and then I tried to clear it up and I was sick again. And now I can't see properly.' 

He pointed over the other side of his bed, and sure enough, Mycroft could now see the source of the smell. Vomit decorated the floorboards and had splashed up the wall and it was clear that Sherlock had indeed made fruitless attempts to clear it up, with smears here and there partially covered by the results of the second wave of heaving. 

'You've probably got a gastric flu bug, you poor old thing', Mycroft said. 'It's really really horrible, but you will get better in a few days. But no school until you are completely well. That's an order.'

..............

Sherlock stayed in bed for four days. During that time the headaches became more frequent. But it was only on Thursday evening, when Mycroft took his dinner upstairs (this comprised a banana and a glass of milk since this seemed now to be the limit of the boy's digestive tolerance), that the idea that this could be something more than a routine ailment started to intrude into Mycroft's thoughts. 

For reasons best known to himself, Sherlock had got himself out of bed and tried to come down the stairs between the nursery bedroom and the first floor, where their parents' and Mycroft's own bedroom lay. 

He hadn't made it. Mycroft had heard nothing all the way down in the kitchen, the stone walls of the house blocking all sound. Which is why he found Sherlock at the base of the short flight of stairs, his skin clammy. The bee pyjamas had caught on the curled wood of the carvings on the bannister and scraped his arm as he fell. The pyjamas were snagged and ripped along one arm. He was huddled in a small heap.

As Mycroft set the tray quickly on the console table on the landing, Sherlock started to cry and as Mycroft gathered him up in his arms, noticing how light he was, even by his own skinny standards, Sherlock moaned and whimpered about his PJs. 

Once in bed, dressed in his second favourite jimjams (the ones with little skeletons on them) and settled to some extent, Mycroft sat by the bed on the small rush woven chair that he'd used himself, years back . Sherlock was biting his lip and looking away from him.

'Sherlock? What happened? Why did you fall, do you know? Can you remember?' 

Mycroft was worried. His parents were away for another two weeks and he was beginning to think that this wasn't just flu. Sherlock said nothing when Mycroft thought this, but he also thought it might not be. He was rarely wrong. Those dusty volumes on his shelves included a large number of medical tomes and one of those gave him a possibility which made him drop the book to the floor, white-faced and climb back into his bed.

He stared ahead for a while, but then shook his head. He didn't want to worry Mycroft. He just wanted him to stay with him and to be held by him.

..............

Mycroft rang their local GP. Alistair was an old family friend and had cared for the Holmes family for years. Hearing his soft familiar tones made Mycroft feel comforted, knowing that someone else was involved now, that it wasn't all on his shoulders. 

His receptionist answered and Mycroft explained the situation. He was shocked at the slight tremor in his speech. It was agreed that Mycroft would take Sherlock in to the surgery in the village first thing the following morning. 

Sherlock seemed drowsy and after getting the plastic bowl from the laundry room downstairs in case he was sick again, Mycroft dithered for a moment, before deciding that he couldn't leave him alone again until they'd seen the doctor. He fetched his own soft satin silk pyjamas and changed into them, then padded back up to his brother's room. 

When he got there, Sherlock was still and quiet, only the whites of his eyes staring up at the ceiling giving an indication that he was awake. Mycroft spoke low and gently. 

'Sherlock, would you like me to sleep here tonight?'

Sherlock gazed at him and the look of gratitude and relief in his flushed and tired face, almost broke Mycroft's resolve to keep calm and not worry. 

He slipped off his dressing gown and pulled back the covers. Immediately, Sherlock clung to him like a baby monkey and clutched at the loose fabric at the base of the top shirt. Mycroft was shocked to feel how cold Sherlock felt, in complete contrast with his sweating forehead. He reached for a wad of tissues from the bedside table, and dipped it in the water glass, then stroked it softly across Sherlock's face, before gathering up all the blanket layers and doubling them snugly over the small humped form of his brother, leaving only one for himself. 

He lay awake long into the night, hours after Sherlock's huffing breathing turned from deep to light. Thinking. And trying not to let his worry take over from his rational, logical self.


	3. Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's symptoms become more worrying, and the doctor's referral adds to the concern. Then matters become a whole lot more urgent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the smut will come eventually. But Sherlock's just a kid right now, and Mycroft just cares about his brother's health. But all this will feed into how and why It starts, when it does.....promise. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my fair maiden beta, NotIdiotProofed, as I make her life even more difficult by sending her the following chapter before this one...whoops! Sorry pamplemousse !! 
> 
> Tea xx

Mycroft woke early, Sherlock still a dead weight, though admittedly a feeble bony one, close beside him in the bed. It was larger than a standard single, but only a bit, five feet wide. 

He looked down at the face, frowning in sleep. He could see Sherlock's brow was damp again with heat, but again his body was cold. Breathing laboured . 

He got up quickly and quietly, showering and dressing. He'd managed to arrange the morning off, although he wasn't sure what he'd do in the afternoon about Sherlock. 

He made breakfast, such as it was, with porridge for him and cereal set out more in hope than expectation for Sherlock. To be honest, Mycroft wasn't entirely sure how his brother subsisted on what he ate, it was just odd pecks of this and that, supplemented by a few excessively sweet favourites. Rum babas, trifle and millionaire's shortbread do not a balanced diet make. 

When he woke his brother so he could dress and eat, though, Sherlock didn't even want to eat the small pile of cereals. Mycroft offered the nuclear option, of sugary Frosties. Sherlock had always loved them, even sending off for the free plastic Tony the Tiger bowl and spoon and repeating 'They're GRRRReatt!' ad nauseum. But now, he shook his head and looked blankly around him, just for a moment. And as he took his rejected bowl out of the dining room, he seemed to lose his balance slightly and stagger, just for a moment, as if on a ship in stormy seas. Sherlock said nothing, just grasped the doorframe as he passed through it. Mycroft saw his expression and he'd never seen a more lost and forlorn one.

Mycroft drove them. He was beginning to regret opting for their family doctor due to the distance. Sherlock was sick again on the way to the doctor’s, into a particularly treasured handbag of Mummy's that she'd got in Biba in the early Seventies, which had been left on the rear passenger seats. Mycroft gripped the steering wheel of the Bentley harder and pushed on out of central London, out and down into the Sussex countryside, to the Holmes family home village. Tombs of dashing Holmes scions peppered the graveyard and verbose memorials littered the walls of the church. 

They drew up outside the doctor’s surgery and Mycroft wiped Sherlock's face with a wet wipe.

'Listen, Lock. I'll come in with you. Tell him everything you've noticed about how you are feeling. It might just be the flu but...let's make sure we don't leave anything out, ok?'

Sherlock nodded and squeezed Mycroft's hand tighter.

............ 

Alistair Coutts was a tall, grey eminence, rather akin to a heron. He had seen the Holmes boys from their earliest days, but in more recent years had more contact with Mrs Holmes, as her depression took her further away from her brilliant but unusual children. He'd suggested, gently, that perhaps a relative might be able to help bringing up the boys, but this hadn't been well received and so all he'd been able to do was to see Mycroft on a periodic basis to check that all was well. Sherlock he'd had less to do with. Other than being underweight and awkward in his manner, the doctor had wished that all his patients would live such an outdoor lifestyle. It would save the country a lot of money later on if they did.

So he'd been shocked to be told about Mycroft's call, especially when Linda his receptionist said that Mycroft had sounded odd and brusque, as that was so unlike the elder Holmes son. 

Alistair was not scheduled to be in that morning but on the basis of Linda's feedback he decided to do so. Added to which the Holmes owned a lot of land in the area and made sure that friends and acquaintances never wanted for a free supply of firewood for their wood burners and stoves in the winter.

.............

Sherlock came into the room holding Mycroft's hand, but also clutching a paper bag. He was squinting at the light and the doctor saw immediately that his balance was not good. The doctor's heart sank, just a little. He was fond of the Holmes boys, though he'd always worried a little about Sherlock. He was just a little… different. 

'Now then, Sherlock', Alistair said in his best avuncular manner, designed to allay worries and fears. 'You're not feeling too well, I understand. Would you be able to tell me what hurts?'

Sherlock winced even at the sound of the doctor’s voice, which wasn't unusually loud. 

'The headaches hurt. My vision goes funny, I see white stars and blurryness sometimes. I keep being sick. Sometimes I fall over. '

The doctor was aware of Mycroft's gimlet gaze and tried not to give away his worry at the list of symptoms. After all, he might be wrong, it could be a combination of several other more common ailments, but… it was tricky to keep totally impassive. He made a show of uncapping his pen and scribbling down a few notes. He asked Sherlock about when he was getting the symptoms and whether any specific activities made them worse or better. 

‘Right young man. Let's do a few games to see what's happening, shall we?’

Over the next half hour, Sherlock was put through some bizarre activities. Walking in a straight line, closing his eyes and touching his nose, having a rubber hammer bopped onto his knees, being asked to clutch the doctor’s finger and not release it, that kind of thing. He didn't do brilliantly on some of them. On top of that were more straightforward examinations of his eyes and a thorough physical examination. Then the doctor asked a long series of questions about his health and medical history and took a blood sample. 

One thing the doctor did not at any stage do was seem to even consider the possibility that this was just flu, gastric or otherwise. Only at the end of the consultation did Mycroft realise that was the case, and it sent a chill down his spine. The doctor's next words didn't help. 

'I'd like, just as a precaution, to have a scan done of Sherlock's head. See if we can't work out why he's feeling so rotten, eh?'

Mycroft sent Sherlock out to sit in the waiting room, and spun round to face the doctor.

'A scan? What kind?' 

'A CT scan, Mycroft. It's probably nothing, but Sherlock's symptoms… well. We need to exclude the possibility of something up there causing them.'

Mycroft felt as if the floor was dissolving beneath his feet, sucking him down into the ground. 

'You think there might be - a - a tumour?' 

'I can't rule it out. Only a scan can tell us. It should be within the week. In the meantime, I've given a prescription for something to help with the headaches, but if there's any escalation, don't come back here, ring 999 and call for an ambulance, would you?'

Mycroft nodded mutely, and headed for the door. He shook the doctor's hand though his heart was breaking.

'Thankyou for seeing him.' 

'You're welcome, Mycroft. He's a tough little lad, don't panic yet.' 

Mycroft nodded and turned away mutely, walking out into the sunshine. Sherlock was sitting on a wall, peeling the layers off a stalk of Timothy grass to reveal the soft, silky inner stem and seeds. Mycroft managed a watery smile but Sherlock looked serious. 

'Can we go? Some of my frogspawn looked like it was going to hatch into tadpoles and I want to be there to see it?'

Mycroft smiled and nodded. He would be by his brother's side. The pond was deep and if balance was an issue...

..............

It didn't take a week for them to be seen. Having decided to not worry Mummy yet with the doctor's words, Sherlock later that night started to fit. It wasn't the violent fits of some epileptics, but just like a switch was turned off. One moment he was there, the next he was on the ground while helping Mummy to prune the roses. Mummy lost it and became hysterical when Mycroft had to come clean about the GP consultation. He shouted at her, because she was sobbing and screeching while Mycroft was trying to both call 999 and at the same time ensure Sherlock was in a safe recovery position. 

The ambulance came quickly. The journey was the worst of Mycroft's life. Sherlock came to confused and, for the first time, looking really scared. 

...........

When they got to A&E, Sherlock was rushed straight to the CT scanner. Once it was done. Mycroft was invited into a room with glowing backlit screens to be shown the results. His legs felt like lead weights as he followed the consultant into the room.


	4. Into the unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives his diagnosis, and surgery looms. The brothers bond grows ever closer.

It would, I think, be fair to say that the detachment of the two Holmes boys from their parents and wider circle of kin became much greater while Sherlock was in hospital. And like a calf from an iceberg, it was a gulf that would and could only widen with time and become more dangerous for them all. Their mother joined them, of course and she held Sherlock's bony hand in her own soft pale one when some of the less savoury procedures were done to him, but she didn't really seem to know what was required. Much of the time she would cry frequently and noisily. In the end, Sherlock seemed to become more distressed by her presence than her absence. The justified selfishness of the young and the sick meant that she had to be sacrificed, cast adrift from their cosy defensive nest of tests and pain, of fear and clinging together.

Mycroft knew he had to say something to his mother. But first, there was the question of finding out exactly what was wrong with his brother. The cold leaden dread that weighted his stomach made his heart ache like he had never known before. So he kept quiet, just for now. 

Thankfully the doctors were not unobservant, and nor were the nurses. They had noticed too and they gently dissuaded Mrs Holmes from very frequent visits, at least until she was coping better . Sherlock never asked after her and he never mentioned his father these days, not at all. Hadn't for over a week now.

She was there, of course, their mother, when the battery of scan results were in, and pored over with frowns, and clipped onto the long glowing white-box in the family room. This facility gave great privacy for discussions of diagnosis, treatment, prognosis, but its presence spoke volumes of normalising the worst of news, and Mycroft had been staring at its grey unlit panels for hours before the medical party swept in and made small talk with his mother and himself and were kind (“too kind makes it worse, too kind isn't normal”), and then they clipped up the scan plates and switched on the light box. 

The consultant, when he joined them, was serious and kind. He told them that the scans and the various tests led them to believe that Sherlock probably had a high grade focal astrocytoma. He drew a diagram of the brain to illustrate. Put in simple terms, he said, this diagnosis meant that the tumour was relatively fast growing, located in the nerves surrounding the brain but was fairly distinct from the brain itself. As a result of the grade, there would not only be surgery to remove the tumour, but there might also be radiotherapy and/or chemotherapy to try to ensure it didn't come back. But they would judge that after they knew how the surgery had gone. There would be a procedure beforehand to do a biopsy.

The headaches, the nausea and now the fits, were all symptoms of the growing pressure of the tumour inside his brother's head. 

Mycroft swallowed hard. And nodded. What else to do? What was there to say?

.....................

The consultant tried to be positive. Survival rates were rising, the tumour being potentially removable as a single coherent mass was a huge help. As a result, he would put a five year prognosis of survival at sixty to seventy per cent.

Mycroft made a small sound. His mother just stared blankly at the consultant. She felt numb and so, so tired, all the time these days. Mycroft looked away, blinking fiercely to prevent the unwanted tears from forcing their way out. He knew that childhood cancer outcomes were improving fast, but this was still entirely unacceptable. A thirty to forty chance of his younger brother dying even after having gone through the rigours of surgery and then chemo or radiotherapy. Or both. 

He thanked the consultant, who suggested that they talk to Sherlock and be honest with him about it being serious and there being no guarantees, but to give him the message that he had a good chance, a fighting chance. He was young, well nourished when he deigned to eat and it stood him in good stead.

The consultant then swept away, all clipboard and white coat and onto the next patient, thus it was left to Mycroft to ring his old Nanny and ask her if she wouldn't mind accompanying his mother home and sitting with her for a few hours. Mrs Holmes seemed glad of the chance to get out of the hospital. Mycroft didn't judge her for it. She wasn't a well woman, not really. 

..............

When he walked into Sherlock's private room (money could buy some things at least, even if not, apparently, good health), Mycroft didn't know how to tell him. How do you say it? He had no idea. He opened his mouth, and shut it again. 

Sherlock was sitting up in bed, folding a piece of paper into a complicated serpent origami figure. He was pale and he couldn't face eating anything, so had a nutrient drip, but the anti-emetics were at least stopping the actual vomiting. The headaches weren't so easy to tackle in someone of his age. It had taken him some hours, as a result, to half finish his paper model. 

Mycroft picked up the clipboard at the end of the tubular steel bed and studied the graphs and tables. He cleared his throat. Then he put the clipboard back, walked to the window and looked out. Private rooms didn't guarantee a view of anything other than laundry steam rising and forklifts unloading supplies, it seemed.

Sherlock called his name softly, and Mycroft spun round on his heel. 

Mycroft didn't know what to say. But Sherlock did. (“Oh the honesty and directness of the young”).

'I know that they want you to tell me what's wrong. And I'm not afraid of it, not really. I'm not stupid and I know there's a lump inside my head and they will take it out and then blast me with radio waves and drugs. And that I might die, but I might not. And I don't really, honestly, want to know any more than that, if that's ok?'

At the last of these words, the chin started to wobble a little, but Sherlock managed a bit more, although his voice quavered. 

'Will you lie with me, Mycroft? I don't want to be alone. Will they let you stay tonight? In here, I mean?' 

He pointed to the bed in which he lay.

Mycroft was overwhelmed with gratitude that Sherlock had spared him the agony of telling him what the doctors had said. He just mutely nodded and managed a watery smile, then turned away so he could speak without breaking down. 

'It will be ok. It will be arranged. Don't worry, Lockie.'

................

Late that night, the glow from the nearby and always brightly illuminated car park managed to softly illuminate the room. Mycroft lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling with its smoke and CO2 detectors and what must both outlets for a sprinkler system and air conditioning. He was dressed in a T shirt and boxers, neither his normal underwear of choice, but he hadn't had time to go home and these were what the hospital shop, run by the volunteer Friends, had been able to offer. 

He had tried to sleep, but the soft beeping of machinery kept intruding and Sherlock was restless against him. He had a sudden craving for cigarettes, thinking longingly of the packet of Marlboro Lights in his jacket pocket, but he daren’t risk leaving Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock was asleep, thank God, at last. He'd fitted again that evening and Mycroft found the fits absolutely terrifying. He'd sought out a doctor and asked whether the removal of the tumour would stop the fits definitely. The doctor was helpful but couldn't say. It might well, but there was a possibility that the tumour had already damaged the brain sufficiently to make the fits a permanent feature, though likely less severe and frequent as time went on. Mycroft just bit his lip, and nodded and thanked him. What else could he do? Shooting the messenger went out of favour centuries back.. 

Sherlock was peaceful now, curled up against Mycroft's side. One of his hands had clutched at Mycroft's T shirt and with the other he was sucking his thumb. Sherlock hadn't sucked his thumb since he was four. Mummy had put bitter aloes on his thumbs to make them taste horribly bitter, having worried that his habit would ruin the alignment of his front teeth. Mycroft could have pointed out that they were baby teeth, destined to fall out anyway, but Mummy hadn't been in the sort of place mentally where it was wise to invite conflict. 

Sherlock had cried and cried inconsolably for a week or two, but then seemed to accept it, although he seemed quieter afterwards. Now, unconsciously, asleep, he had reclaimed his comfort and adult teeth or no, Mycroft didn't have the faintest intention of denying him it. 

.............

Before the main surgery could take place, a biopsy operation was required and took place three days later. It felt major enough to Mycroft. Sherlock was fully anaesthetised and the surgeons removed a tiny sample of tissue. It confirmed the consultant's theory as to the nature and progression of the tumour. After that, what had seemed like an interminable wait suddenly became a spiral of drugs (steroids and anticonvulsants), tests on heart, lungs, and, it seemed, anything else they could think of. 

Everyone was enormously kind and enormously patient and couldn't do enough for them, but despite it, Mycroft could see Sherlock shrinking back into himself, shutting himself away from the world. Only Mycroft was allowed into his focus and even then, it was starting to come and go at times. Mycroft didn't know whether this was the illness, the tumour pressing on areas of the brain dealing with recognition and concentration, or whether Sherlock was (consciously or not) actually choosing to reject reality.

There hadn't been any more fits, thank God, up until the night before his surgery to remove the tumour. Sherlock had been fractious and morose in turn all through the day and Mycroft was grateful when he at last settled down to sleep. They had kept on with this sleeping together after that first night, Sherlock seeming to crave the comfort of Mycroft's warm, relaxed body and Mycroft relieved not to have to be an inch further away from Sherlock than he had to be. He'd taken leave from work, despite the cost to his prospects. 

It wasn't as if Mummy or Daddy were much use. Mummy came in every day, just once a day now, but he wasn't sure to what benefit - and Daddy was abroad with a colleague on a work trip; a workmate who just happened to be female and very attractive and whose number Mycroft had found listed under a made up name in Daddy's phone. Mr Holmes had of course been told about Sherlock and had made all the right noises about coming back, but then had phoned Mycroft a few hours later to tell him it might be a little while before he could return, after all, and "to look after his boy for him." Mycroft had put the phone down on him and called a meeting of the Holmes Trustees for the following month. He needed to protect his mother and brother's position. His father had always preferred him to Sherlock, thinking how younger brother fey and not easy to understand. Mycroft thought Sherlock understood their father only too well in return.   
................... 

At three twenty eight, early in the morning of the operation, Sherlock went into a fit and this time it wasn't just a sudden drop into unconsciousness, but a full violently convulsive episode. Mycroft had to extricate himself, knowing he shouldn't hold his brother down to keep him still and quickly raise the bars at the bed's side to keep Sherlock from twisting and rolling off the bed and falling to the floor. He slammed on the call button but they were already on their way; the vital signs could be monitored from the nursing station and an alarm had sounded there. He kept reassuring Sherlock, kept timing the fit, which he knew was important.

As he stood back and let the doctors and nurses take care of his brother, Mycroft sat down on the hard orange plastic chair in the corner of the room and for the first time in all of this waking nightmare, began to cry. 

...........

They took Sherlock away earlier than planned. The sooner they went in, they said, the better. Mycroft stroked his face, and then the drowsy boy was gone and Mycroft was left, holding his phone and the untouched packet of Marlboro Lights. He walked straight outside and out of the hospital grounds, into a park and sat down on a bench. He smoked his way through the packet, sucking in as much of the poison as he could humanly extract. They felt wonderful. That was the trouble with cigarettes, he thought glumly. Of course they fucked you up in the long run, but when you were a smoker and times were tough, they really bloody helped. It took all his resolve not to march into the nearest newsagents and scoop up a shelf-full. Instead, he emptied the roaches into the nearby bin and headed back to the hospital, a place he was beginning to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no medical expert, and have based the med info largely on the excellent websites of the major UK cancer charities. NB the survival rates quoted to Mycroft are quite a lot lower than the current ones. This is deliberate because at the time the Holmes boys were this age, childhood cancer survival rates were much lower, and the UK lagged behind on it. Thankfully, there have been huge advances in 30 years and survival rates overall are now often 90%. I hoped in this way to make the scenario life threatening in fiction but hopefully not reflect too many readers experience in real life.


	5. Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock undergoes major surgery. Mycroft starts to unconsciously cut slightly loose from the strict social and moral framework he has adhered to all his life. Only slightly at this stage, but tiny acorns and giant oaks......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for basic discussion of major surgery and cancer.

The operation took just under six hours. Mycroft couldn't remember most of the wait, a lack of sleep and worry had led him to the point of exhaustion. There was apparently, no update due during the operation, only at the end. So he dozed, and watched the clock hands on the wall and at times, he simply paced the corridors, passing the cheerful and the weary, the sick and the recovering. And, at length, he just sat, helplessly smoothing the imaginary creases on his trousers and picking invisible fluff from his sleeve. 

The hours passed slowly, unendingly by.

And then, like many apparently interminable waits, it was over, all at once, and the medical staff were there talking at him. They were smiling, though it was a measured smile..

It went well, they said. A few respiratory issues midway, but "all ok now", and they believed they had successfully removed the entire tumour. 

He spent the next twelve hours waiting for Sherlock to wake up properly. He had awakened from the anaesthetic well, as they had said. But some kind of chest infection set in subsequently, so he was sedated to allow them to help him breathe until the crisis was over the worst. And Mycroft was alone again to sit with his thoughts and a polystyrene cup of greasy thin coffee and the fear – the fear that this might never be over, truly over.

.................

Very late that night, Mycroft was finally able to see his brother and be confident that Sherlock was alert enough and well enough to respond. He averted his eyes from the large shaved patch of Sherlock's head, with the stitched-back flap of skin covering the removed and replaced area of his skull that had been used for access to the brain and the tumour. It made him feel ill to look at it, resenting the interference with his brother’s perfect beauty and he just kept reminding himself that it was evidence of the removal of the tumour and he should be glad to see it. He also reminded himself that perhaps perfect beauty wasn't exactly what one was meant to consider a younger brother, but he couldn't bring himself to care any longer. There was no limit, no end to his love for Sherlock and the closer death stalked his brother, the less Mycroft was starting to care about what other people thought of them.

……………

Sherlock, when he first saw him, was still being dosed with drugs to help prevent fits and the doctors wouldn't know for some time if he would need them permanently, or if they might be reduced in time with no recurrence of the seizures.. But for now, the drugs did spare him the fear of another fitting episode. 

Mycroft was sitting by the bed, gently stroking Sherlock's cheek when he at last opened his eyes. He reached out his hand slightly and Mycroft took it gently, brushing down each finger in turn with reverence. 

Sherlock tried to smile slightly, but his lips were too cracked and dry. Mycroft resolved to get him a cotton bud soaked in water, then some Vaseline for his lips. And yes, some ice for him to suck, given that he'd not be allowed water yet. But for now, he smiled down at his baby brother. 

Sherlock spoke first, surprisingly, although it was more of a dry whisper. Mycroft was astonished to see a tear escape the corner of his eye and run down his cheek, before Sherlock’s cracked voice sounded. He wiped it away with a small tissue. 

'Tired. So tired. Rest.'

Mycroft nodded. 

'Of course you are tired, Lockie. You've done so much and been so brave and so good. I'm proud of you. You deserve a long rest.'

Then he noticed Sherlock's hand tugging feebly at his sleeve. Sherlock then shook his head slightly. 

'Not...me. You. You are tired. Need to rest now. Sleep now, Myc.'

Mycroft could only hold himself in enough to nod in return and touch the back of his hand gently against Sherlock's soft, pale cheek.

'You silly package. You're the one who needs rest. Sleep, mon frère. I will be here when you wake again.'

His brother nodded and turned slightly onto his side, as much as the bandages would allow, but just then they were interrupted by the arrival of the medical staff, come to do all sorts of tests and to clean Sherlock's face and hands with a warm damp flannel. 

It was almost a hateful hour more before the lights were turned down and Mycroft and Sherlock lay entwined together in deep and dreamless sleep. Not even the nurses hourly checks would weaken them, nor the beeping of the equipment. 

…………………

It was three long, exhausting weeks before Sherlock went home from hospital and Mycroft stayed with him every moment his brother was awake. When Sherlock slept, which he was doing much more than usual, his body knowing that he needed to heal, Mycroft tried desperately hard to plough through as much paperwork from the office as he could, before joining Sherlock for a few hours snatched rest.

It wasn't ideal and when the day came to finally take Sherlock home, Mycroft knew he would need to go back to work full-time very soon. 

For now, though, Mycroft set those thoughts to one side as he pushed the wheelchair through the corridors, until they reached the hospital entrance and a car pulled up to take them home. Sherlock was walking now, but major surgery and hospital food had exacerbated his already gaunt frame and Mycroft knew he really needed to convalesce in the traditional sense. It was a shame there weren't any stylish 1920's style convalescent homes left, although he did acknowledge they might have only existed in Agatha Christie books and hence were riddled with corpses struck down by means quite apart from whatever ailed them into booking in. Sherlock would like that. 

...........

Almost as soon as they got home, Sherlock was upset. He found out about Mycroft going back to work, and worse, about a plan Mummy had dreamed up in one of her more lucid moments about packing him off to some relatives who had bought an orange farm near Argos, in the Greek Peloponnese. She clearly thought the weather (and all the oranges he consume, perhaps?), would be a certain prevention of the tumour returning, or worse, metastasising elsewhere in his body. Sherlock was spitting with fury, like a feral kitten held by the scruff of the neck. 

Mycroft wasn't sure how to proceed. Quite clearly, he couldn't care for Sherlock full time and work as well and Daddy was shacked up with his mistress in a mews cottage in Barnes. Mummy was worse by the day, having discovered the benefits of a 'tiny, medicinal' vodka every evening which rapidly slid into hidden bottles, lies - and mood swings to frighten a sergeant-major. 

In the end, Mycroft took his first major step into taking control of the dysfunctional family. He told his mother that Sherlock needed to remain in London to be under the monitoring of the doctors. He negotiated with work to ensure he would only work core office hours, then work from home the rest of the hours God sent and he calmed Sherlock by reversing an earlier statement that he would return to his own room now that Sherlock was recovering. They kept sleeping together. Now, they felt no reason to stop. If they could hold onto each other, all would be well and nothing else mattered, not really.

..................

And that is how two brothers, already unusual, already codependent, maintained a physical closeness beyond that which is regarded as normal, usual, acceptable or moral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The hours passed slowly, unendingly by' is a quotation from the glory that is Joan Baez
> 
> .......
> 
> I will definitely publish another chapter mid week. I got to travel to London to see James Rhodes at Kings Place on Thursday and see the RA Summer Exhibition on Friday, and as a result am feeling all inspired and fired up for all things creative. 
> 
> PS James Rhodes is crazily talented and eloquent and is too adorable and precious for us mere mortals. He's like a fragile priceless work of art and I just wanted to hug him, though of course I was far too shy to say hi when I had the chance....


	6. the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Holmes returns. Sherlock's recovery is shattered. Mycroft starts to have to fight his inner self.

FIVE MONTHS LATER, LONDON

The unreal state of living lasted for five months. Unknown to Mycroft, the candle was burning down.

.........

Sherlock pushed aside the heavy curtain and stared out of the nursery window, the corners thick with cobwebs and the uneven glass characteristic of the venerable and draughty dwelling. The floors sloped alarmingly on this floor, like the deck of a ship, the wide oak boards shining only where furniture had been moved recently. Thick bunnies of fluff gathered elsewhere and made for sneezing when anything was disturbed. The curtains must have been expensive once, but once was once upon a time and definitely not at all recently and Sherlock sneezed if he as much as touched their fringed tassels. Sneezing ensued now.

As he looked out, he could see clumps of daffodils coming into flower. All yellow, none of those garish multicoloured ones and definitely no wishy-washy cream ones. People who grew the latter were also likely to grow laurel instead of yew, privet instead of box and knowingly select variegated varieties of hedge plants for their gardens. (The horror of it!). The snowdrops were almost over, but the crocuses were still campaigning. The front garden was modest, but remarkable for existing at all in this location. No other property had one for a full square mile around. The nearest was the small garden in the fantastically named Postman’s Park, where Sherlock loved to read the memorials to brave deeds by men and women and even by pets. 

As Sherlock gazed out, a car pulled up and a figure got out. The car drew away again, but the figure remained, hesitating for a moment, before it walked towards the house. His father, tall and stooping, walked up the path. Sherlock felt funny inside. On balance, not a good kind of funny. A slight sort of automatic relief, that a grownup was here, someone who might come and take charge and relieve Mycroft of all the worry, but mainly a sort of dread, much sharper and more searing, that the only someone who had come was his father, a man neither of the boys either liked or trusted any longer.

............

After that he tried to remain calm, to breathe deeply, like the kind lady, the one at the hospital with the soft voice and soft hands that smelled of roses and limes had told him to, when he felt dizzy or in pain. He tried to remain aware of everything, not to slip away into his own mind, but instead to identify, classify and assess each emotion, each fear, each hope. 

He logged the sound of voices. They were loud, and angry. One sounded like Mycroft, even from three floors up in the attics, he could recognise that. The other, the deeper, colder voice of his father. It was rarely quiet over the next half an hour. Once, when a rare moment came, he thought he could just hear the sound of a low moaning sob coming from his mother's room. Much more than the noise of the battle downstairs, this undid him. His head had been aching so fiercely on and off for several days, but he hadn't wanted to mention it to Mycroft. More than that, he had feigned a cold to stay in bed and dosed himself with pills he found in his parents’ en-suite. Lots of pills. Maybe too many pills, he conceded. Maybe that was why he could only see in a blurry way. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hide that. 

...........

His mother was crying. He could hear her. Mycroft was angry. He could hear him. He didn't need to see well for any of it..

He turned away, knocking over a lamp stand as he did so and knelt down beside the bed. He'd said his nightly prayers here, when he was small and when Mummy had a phase (after the seances and before the macrobiotic vegan diet) of embracing High Church Anglicanism and entertained a priest who would come and sit with her to discuss theological questions. Mummy had wanted Sherlock to be a devout little boy and even mentioned to the priest that Sherlock might take Holy Orders when he was older, so pure and perfect he seemed when sounding out his prayers in his bee pyjamas. The priest had the sense to look doubtful as well as pleased. Sherlock had been seven years old. The Jesuits might have seen the man at that age, but the priest wasn't sure it held true in the modern world. He thought Sherlock more likely to find the temptations of the world too hard to resist. Or perhaps, more likely, that the world would find him too great a prize. He persuaded Mrs Holmes to set aside her vision for her son for the moment.

Now, though, Sherlock was not asking for forgiveness or remembering dead dogs or sick aunts or the Christians being persecuted in places he had to look up in the atlas that lived in the small library... He was pulling out the emergency fire escape ladder from under his bed and dragging it to the nursery window....

..........

Mycroft had said his piece. Their father stood, defiant and angry, beside the fireplace. 

'Myc, I can't understand. I'm offering you everything! A new life in the U.S... A shoe-in at some of the biggest tech firms, or anything else you're interested in. Your own flat. There's nothing for you here, son, don't you see that? Your mother is more drunk and unhinged by the day and Sherlock's not really in the Holmes’ mould, is he. He's a bit strange, all silent creeping around and no friends. And, he's not exactly healthy, is he? Why don't you seize the chance and take this opportunity? Come with me.' 

Mycroft was shaking slightly. Hardly visible, but it was there. He stood very close to his father, by now being slightly taller than him, and raised a shaking finger.

'If you ever speak about my mother or my brother in that fashion again, then God forgive me, I won't answer for my actions. I know you think that she is weak and he is abnormal and let me tell you now, that she is made weak by your cruelty, and he, Sherlock… your son, is no more abnormal than you or I. He is sick and neglected by both his parents.His health is poor and your presence can only make it worse.. 

'You may see yourself out, I am sure. And please give my kindest regards to your... companion. I hope your stay in the U.S. is a pleasant one.' 

With that, he turned, walked to the door and opened it. 

His father stopped as he reached the threshold.

'Mycroft, you alone of the three of you have the brain for success. Don't waste it on them. Think about it, won't you?’ 

And then, just like that, he left, the heavy air of cologne drifting like a cloak behind him. 

Slumping to the floor, Mycroft stayed with his head in his hands for a moment. Then, hearing an odd noise from up the staircases, he rose and made his way out into the hall. A bit of air, that's what he needed. Then he'd go and check on Sherlock, who had seemed a little highly coloured last night, slightly troubled in his sleep. 

...........

The dust was disturbed now, swirling in eddies and currents. The cobwebs were swept aside. The window was open. The room empty.

Sherlock had made his way out of the window now, and stood, dressed rather bizarrely in a long white nightshirt (his skin had been weirdly hypersensitive ever since the surgery and it made elasticated or even drawstring pyjama waists uncomfortable). He was on a small flat roof behind a tall parapet of a Gothic roof apex. It ran around the building, providing a drainage channel for rainwater, being lead lined.

He moved around the roof, trying to find somewhere where he couldn't hear the shouting and the angry voices. They made the pain in his head worse. Eventually, they stopped, and so he did too. He was at the rear of the building, about forty feet from the ground, and he sat down on the parapet. It was windy and his nightshirt billowed and flapped and his bare feet were cold and sore on the sharp edges of the lead-work sections and the rough hewn slates.

Not being able to see as well as one would want if one was going to wander around on a roof in a strong wind was something of an impediment, Sherlock acknowledged, but he was desperate to get as much space between him and his father and what the man might have persuaded Mycroft to do, as possible.

A wave of grief and pain suddenly washed over him. Tears came unbidden and uncontrolled.

............... 

So it was, that Mycroft, having cleared his head by walking down the garden to the old James Grieve apple tree, a dark bent shape in the darkness, returned to the house via a path that led up the centre of the garden, heard crying and looked up. 

Sherlock. A white shape. On the roof edge. Crying. Swaying. Stumbling. Saying something, something aloud. 

Mycroft bellowed in panic.

'Sherlock!!! Stay exactly where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do that?'

It seemed like slow motion after that. Sherlock turned sharply at the sound of Mycroft's voice, seemed to try to focus and frowned. Then, he tripped, maybe on the nightshirt hem, perhaps on one of the lead flashings and then, failing to recover his balance, he fell from the roof, like a single shining ticker-tape in a parade. Entirely silently. Entirely undoing his brother, who screamed so loudly that it set off the car alarm on the other side of the house. A second later, the rustle and thud as fragile human form met the unforgiving ground.

..........

Mycroft hardly dared to approach his brother's shape. It was lying awkwardly, twisted, trapped in the yew hedge. A foot to the right and he would have hit the flagstones and Mycroft knew he would have been killed instantly. Even so, even being lucky, he had plunged forty feet and Mycroft could see that his left leg and arm were all wrong and his leg was especially bad, the bone protruding. Mycroft knew that the blood supply was likely to be seriously compromised with this open fracture and that time was of the essence if they were to save his lower leg. 

He ran back in the house, this being the time before mobiles and called 999.. By the time he'd got back outside and was still trying to work out whether to move his unconscious brother, the ambulance was already pulling up. 

.............

They saved the leg. Landing on the yew hedge to break his fall, was the first piece of good luck Sherlock had seen for a long time.

It wasn't until the bone fractures were set and various lacerations were attended to, that Mycroft could speak to the by now conscious if drowsy Sherlock. 

 

……………….

He pushed his way into the room, the auto-closer on the door was stiff and required some shoulder power to open it when you didn't have your hands free. Mycroft was carrying a flannel and a bowl of warm water.

Sherlock was dozing, propped up against what looked like at least seventeen cushions. He was bare to the waist, dressings dotting his thin torso. Yew might have saved his life, despite being deadly poisonous to eat to human and animal alike, but it was capable of some nasty cuts, the bark being as hard as iron. No wonder the Agincourt longbow-men had bows made of yew. Yew was strange in another way too, like snake venom or vaccines. Its poison, taxol, could be made into drugs that cured breast cancer. "Nothing is ever entirely good or bad", thought Mycroft, a thought that would come back to him much later on. 

He called to his brother softly, unwilling to wake him roughly or suddenly. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled at him, and Mycroft's heart filled. Yet a moment later, the smile had gone, the eyes were unfocused and Sherlock was grasping at the sheets, his eyes tight shut in pain. 

'Sherlock. Sherlock! What's wrong?' 

Mycroft was shocked and grabbed Sherlock's hand, dumping the basin onto the trolley table.

Sherlock was shaking his head slowly. 

'Myc? Please help me? I can't see you.'

Mycroft had never hit a red button so fast in his life. 

...............

The tumour had come back. Unexpected, after the apparent success of the surgery, but not unheard of. This time, then, it would be the full works. Surgery again, but chemo too this time. The tumour was small enough to operate on without using chemo first to shrink it: normally they would have done that in this case but Sherlock wasn't fit enough to take it. So surgery, followed by some rest, then chemo. 

If Mycroft had been rattled last time, this time he was properly frightened. When Sherlock cried at being told the treatment plan, Mycroft held him against his chest and absorbed the racking gulps of his body searching for air. 

…………….

They had a strange conversation, the afternoon before the operation. Mycroft had suggested to Sherlock that after the op, but before the chemo, it might be wise to consider storing some....genetic material… in case the chemo made Sherlock infertile. Sherlock went a shade of bright red and shook his head.

‘Why not, Lockie? Just as insurance. I know it's a long way off but one day you'll want children, get married, all that?’

Sherlock looked at him with fierce, shining, unfocused eyes. His sight was still being affected by the tumour's growth.

'Myc, I don't know how you can be so dim. Girls are not my area, really they aren't.' 

Mycroft didn't know whether this was just a Sherlock who wasn't yet into the opposite sex, or a Sherlock who really knew he was gay this early, or just a Sherlock who was more worried about living beyond the next year, making long off thoughts of children irrelevant.

'Hey, be calm, mon frere. We have time to think about these things. Let's get through the operation first, then you recover, then you decide, yes?'

.............

It changed something for Mycroft, though, that vehement assertion from Sherlock. It raised questions. How could he know so definitely? He had little contact with other children, there was really only Mycroft.

When he lay beside Sherlock that night, listening to his brother's light breathing, he was forced to consider his own sexuality. What was it? Did avoiding any situations where sexual connections might be made, render him asexual? Did he find men or women attractive, sexually? He didn't dream of either.

His last thought as he fell asleep, spooned around Sherlock, was that he hoped Sherlock would live long enough to find out if his conviction was right. 

................

The next morning was a disaster. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Mycroft woke in the early hours rock hard. Horrified, he managed to wriggle away from Sherlock and escape to the ensuite loo. Maybe his bladder was full? Pressure on the prostate as the bladder fills, perfectly logical.

The small dribble of urine told its own hateful story. His cock was full and aching. His head was full of his brother. Mycroft swore, leaned back against the towel rail, took himself in hand and stroked himself quickly to completion with his fist in his mouth and shame in his heart. His teeth were gritted the whole time. He came hard, swearing angrily.

Then he cleaned himself up, dressed and went to aid his brother as he was prepped for his second major surgery within six months, feeling guilty and a traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More info on the wonderful Postman's Park  
> http://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/things-to-do/green-spaces/city-gardens/visitor-information/Pages/Postman's-Park.aspx


	7. The Developing Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has the rest of his treatment, and spends a year closeted with his brother. Mycroft becomes uncomfortable about his brother's developing sexuality and its effect on his own body.

The wait was worse this time. It wasn't any longer than last time, but it was the knowledge that the hope and optimism that had been their ready friend last time had been a confidence trickster, that the odds were turning against them, that made the difference, made it so much worse.

Mycroft resorted to some soft-soaping of the powers that be and got hold of a tiny room. It wasn't much more than a cupboard, and was stuffy to put it kindly, but it meant that he could lie down and stare into space in privacy, rather than sitting on a hard plastic chair in a public waiting room. So he tried to do some work and, strangely, found it helped, because it was difficult and needed his concentration. Distraction was good. Still, he couldn't manage more than a few minutes of concentrated effort before his thoughts were all back here, all back with the pale thin shape of his brother, still and silent, helpless and alone in the harsh sterile glare of an operating theatre three floors down. He shoudnt be there. He should be here, with me. Always. Always.

Like all long waits, they seem to last forever and then end suddenly, almost as a surprise. Mycroft jumped when the door opened and a head poked in.

When he was taken to Sherlock after the operation, his brother still very much asleep, Mycroft caught a ragged breath when he saw the state of him. The operation site was larger this time, the hair shaved from almost half his head. He looked like a New Romantic pop star who had run out in front of a lorry after a gig, except that pop stars needed makeup to look that marble-pale and definitely don't have two drains emerging from inside their head. One led to a plastic bottle, where drips of crimson ran down and settled at the bottom. It made Mycroft feel queasy, despite his history of espionage and the lives he had (NOTE 221 characters obscured: redacted content under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act) 

The other drain carried a clear liquid from near the base of Sherlock's head. “Cerebrospinal fluid”, the nurse said when he asked her about it. Draining some of it off prevented there being too much pressure around his brain, apparently. His precious brain, please God, please protect him. A saline drip and an IV line for delivering drugs completed the Pinocchio puppet picture. It made Mycroft want to vomit, to rip all of them out and wrap Sherlock up in a soft cashmere blanket and take him home, away from this place of unfamiliar smells and objects.

His brother’s face was the real shock though. His eye sockets and closed eyelids were almost black and there was livid bruising on one cheek. Again, the nurses tried to be reassuring. "Not unusual, especially with the location of the tumour. Amazing how quickly the bruising will fade. No beauty contests for a few weeks though, granted." Mycroft supposed they were used to saying such breezy things, week after week.

Mycroft had to take a deep breath and try to be grateful that his brother was fighting this…this thing as best he could. Even as the nurses made their comments he wanted to tell them they were stupid and blind, that his brother, bruised and defiled as he was, represented the peak of human beauty. But he knew there was no point. No one understood Sherlock, or him and no one ever would.

...........

Taking Sherlock home after a week in hospital was a more sombre affair this time. Sherlock was visibly weaker than he had been before, sick enough not to be embarrassed by it. And for a boy who rarely slept, he now did little else, it seemed. Sometimes, Mycroft thought that the sleepiness might be partly depression, that unending exhaustion at the idea of doing anything more than nothing. Certainly Sherlock was more quiet and withdrawn. 

His hair was trying to grow back, but as yet all there was, was a pathetic thin layer of baby bird fuzz, which Mycroft shaved carefully away from immediately around the operation site. He shaved Sherlock's head and then took his own razor and shaved himself, in the old cracked washbasin with the peeling patch of vinyl wallpaper behind it, the bluebell sprigs of the paper pattern mottled brown with the splashes of hundreds of Holmes children's hurried pre-meal hand-washes. Like many elite families, interior decoration was something that happened maybe once in a generation. Money wasn't wasted on fashion and trend.

Sherlock watched him as he shaved, pale eyes fixed on his torso and the smooth sliding sweep of the razor. 

Mycroft knew they were counting down the days. Radiotherapy was looming. He carried on shaving and tried to keep his hand steady. He'd never make a surgeon…

……………

He went back to work. He had to. Sherlock was left in the care of the housekeeper, whose name turned out to be Marina, and the less than useful intermittent attentions of their mother. In the morning he left Sherlock sitting in the old leather Chesterfield chair in his room, untouched bowl of cereal on his dressing gown lap and his stubbly hair looking bizarre. By evening, when he rushed back, aiming to be home for the formal dinner that was still mandated, he would find Sherlock sitting again, stiffly in his dining chair this time, silent and moving only to pass the condiments or the wine. 

……….

The radiotherapy and the chemo made Sherlock sicker than the tumour had. The only positive news, was that the doctors had been able to reduce the steroids and the anti-convulsants. Other than that, it was long weeks of unremitting misery for a patient who had begun to wonder if it was all worth it. 

'They're poisoning me, Myc', he whispered one night, as they lay staring up at the stars through the skylight. 

'I know.' 

There was no point arguing. Sherlock was right, if ever there was a hammer to crack a nut approach, chemo was it. A targeted hammer with a skilled hand, but still, a blunt and bloody instrument of war. Mycroft pressed his lips to the warm forehead, below a brow that now was smooth and bald. He looked so different like this. When they ventured out, when Sherlock was well enough and having a “good day”, Mycroft insisted on a proper hat, one with ear flaps, because Sherlock was vulnerable to colds and fevers with the decimation of his immune system. The only hat Sherlock agreed to wear was an old deerstalker belonging to Uncle Ivo, which smelled of mothballs and whisky (much like Uncle Ivo). He still hated it, it was just the least awful of the available options. Someone sent him a baseball cap, but he binned it. Holmes heads didn't suit youth fashion, seemed to be the conclusion. 

'You can get through it, brother mine. You are strong, you are young: and you have me.'

Even as he said it, Mycroft felt the painfully thin sinews and bones of Sherlock's arms beneath his hands. Who was he trying to kid? 

............

It took six long months to finish all of the horrible treatment and a further two before Sherlock was well enough to return to school.

In all that time, the brothers were together whenever Mycroft was not at work. Mycroft wasn't an especially tactile person, whereas Sherlock always had been. Now, however, the extra sensitivity of his skin meant that only Mycroft was permitted to touch Sherlock's skin and in response to the concession, the honour, Mycroft would find himself reaching for Sherlock instinctively and often. If they were being driven somewhere, Mycroft's long slim fingers would gently pick up Sherlock's own and the gentlest circles drawn, rhythmically on his skin. He'd read that almost two complete circles was the most soothing pattern and for once he heeded such hippie diktats, alternating clockwise and anti-clockwise. 

At night it was reversed. Mycroft kept his own space and it was Sherlock who slid towards him, nestling in close like the scrawny baby bird he resembled as his hair grew back and he tried to regain strength. 

.............

This time, the cancer did not obviously reappear, in terms of symptoms anyway. Checkups were at least quarterly and every time neither brother got any sleep the night before. 

The eve of the first anniversary check, a year since the second surgery, Sherlock was particularly agitated. He had fallen asleep that afternoon and had dreamed, as deep sleeps during the day often tend to, a complicated and distressing reverie of the cancer returning. When he woke at Mycroft's return home, he was distressed and convinced that this time, the doctors would find the tumour returned. He cried. If he was right, both brothers knew there were limited options remaining.

...........

Sherlock woke suddenly, at the sound of the heavy front door opening downstairs. It creaked no matter how much WD40 or oil was applied. His mother hated the noise and she was sleeping. 

He could hear Mycroft swear softly and close the door with more creaking and a second click. Sherlock knew his brother would appear in a moment. 

Sherlock was nude. His skin sensitivity meant that whenever there were few people around and Mycroft was at work, he tended to shed what inside out soft cotton layers he could stand and wander the house and garden. He also liked the feeling of the sun and the air on his body. It made him feel alive and over the past couple of years there had been times when that had become a vital and threatened state. 

Normally at this point he would clothe himself, at least with a T shirt and soft Jersey boxers. 

Today, conscious of the nightmare's predictions about tomorrow's outcome at the hospital, he felt no need to conform. And he didn't want to dress. 

Mycroft pushed open the door. He had in his hand a small bag, containing some of Sherlock's favourite sweets, having detected that his brother was eating even less than normal. Appealing to his sweet tooth seemed advisable.

..............

He stopped and the hand holding out the bag of sweets fell to his side. 

Sherlock was lying on the bed, face down, splayed in unruly wildness on the pure white waffle weave duvet. Dark curls, albeit unacceptably short, once again adorned his head and the long slim frame gave way, as Mycroft's gaze lowered, to the plump pale perfection of his buttocks.

Mycroft felt very uncomfortable very quickly. And then still more uncomfortable as his brother heard him exclaim and instead of covering up, he twisted lithely onto his back. 

Mycroft's reaction was bluster. 

'Sherlock! For heaven's sake, put some bloody clothes on!' 

Sherlock smiled, continued to lie on his back and started to roll up a pretend cigarette made out of a shop receipt for a large jar of chocolate limes (his favourite and bought for him, of course, by Mycroft, who loved to see him eat). Several of the sweets lay beside him and a sizeable cluster of empty wrappers indicated that he had already indulged. A small jade shard of the sweet clung to his full, damp lower lip. Mycroft found himself staring at it, fascinated, until Sherlock's pink tongue flicked out and captured the sweet jewel, stealing it from Mycroft's orbit of influence. He felt cheated and flushed.

Devoid of the distraction now, other than wondering whether Sherlock would taste of chocolate limes, which was bad enough, Mycroft found his eyes tracking lower, to the smooth cream stomach and beyond...

It took him only a moment more to realise that his young brother was sporting an impressive erection. His penis, long, slim and hard-soft in that wondrous way only a hard cock can be, was clamped against his stomach, slightly right curving. It was the most compelling and dangerous sight Mycroft had ever seen.

Mycroft flicked his gaze instantly up to his brother's face. Sherlock didn't look worried or embarrassed, just stretched luxuriantly like a lion cub and yawned widely. Mycroft, who had never seen such obvious evidence of Sherlock's developing sexual identity before, was far less sanguine with the whole scenario.

'Brother mine, I am going to shower. I should be not less than fifteen minutes.' His voice was clipped and formal, masking his shame at the growing hardness between his legs. He didn't know if Sherlock knew what he was going to do, the minute that door was shut, but he desperately hoped not. 

...........

The bathroom door closed softly and the lock slid home, Mycroft did not even have the time to remove his clothes. Instead, trousers around his hips, supporting himself with one hand on the sink, he roughly took himself in hand. A humiliating few whimpering frantic thrusts later, he spent himself into his hand and onto the edge of the porcelain sink. As he did so, he groaned, and knew instantly it had been too loud, out loud and was instantly silent, hoping against hope that Sherlock hadn't heard in the next room. He hadn't come that hard or that satisfyingly in years, it had been impossible to keep quiet. 

He knew that his wish had not been granted, when a few moments later, he heard the unmistakeable sounds of his brother masturbating through the wall. And a little while later still, a sound of his own name being exhaled out of a mouth that then muffled a shout of triumph and release in its orgasm. 

Fuck. What was he going to do now? Mycroft looked down at the mess of ejaculate and ruined suit trousers, and resolved that things were going to have to change, for all their sakes and especially Sherlock's. But he knew he couldn't do anything before the checkup tomorrow. 

By the following day, he felt as if he'd left it too late. Sherlock, despite his fears, got the all clear from the doctors. 

Mycroft was desperately relieved. It made his shame manageable – for now. He gazed unashamedly at the dark curling lashes, now growing back, and longed for the glossy curls to crown his brother’s head once more. For now, he embraced Sherlock, feeling the boy shaking under his touch.


	8. Cover Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft thinks the unthinkable for the first time. It forces him to take action.

What Mycroft did, was move back into his own room. Back to the immaculate precise order and ascetic atmosphere. Stay late at the office. Impress his superiors. 

Break his brother's bloody heart. 

……………..

There had been tears and then there were the whole endless days of silence. Later, seeing that wasn't working, a new tactic appeared; Sherlock refused to eat even the small amount of food he had done before. Mycroft was determined to win the brinkmanship, but the brink wasn't a place his brother could afford to linger for long. After five days of consuming only water, Sherlock looked as bad as during the worst days of his treatment and knew he had won when Mycroft couldn't bear to look at him any longer, leaving the room rather than see his brother gaunt and pale in triumph.

They compromised in the end. Mycroft stayed in his own quarters during the working week, Friday and Saturday nights he slept with his brother. 

The arrangement, perhaps surprisingly, by now had the blessing of their mother. She jumped at her own shadow these days and her terror at the thought of losing Sherlock not from the cancer, which had stayed away, but from his own wilful stubbornness, was greater than her inclination to think too much about the implications of the sleeping arrangement.. So she steered her chaotic mind away from consideration of the risks of two brothers, one going through puberty, the other sexually mature and isolated, sleeping in the same bed on a regular basis. She was just glad it was only weekends, and that to date, there was nothing untoward in the laundry basket to give her cause for greater concern...

…………….

And so this arrangement continued. The months passed. Sherlock's voice broke, his balls dropped and the hair around his developing genitals was thicker now. That didn't last however, as he grew obsessive about measuring it and shaving it off when it got longer than a centimetre. He grew taller, never quite overtaking Mycroft, but respectably lanky. He never thickened out in physique like his brother though, whether due to lucky genetics or his ascetic approach to nutrition. Only his backside was plump, a startling contrast, the rest was like a young big cat, lithe and lean and linear.

Mycroft spent Friday and Saturday nights facing away from his brother and Monday to Thursday nights furiously wanking himself to exhaustion, over and over again. And hated himself for it a little more each time he spent himself into one of his huge cotton handkerchiefs, which he had laundered in batches of a dozen by an understanding Italian at the grubbier end of Gray’s Inn Road.. 

................

So it wasn't a happy compromise, and the Holmes brothers both had a real sense of holding their breath, marking time, waiting for something to happen.

The crisis came around a year later. Sherlock was fifteen and had grown into being unforgivably gorgeous with a strange alien beauty. By now, he had a good chance that the cancer wouldn't return a third time, too, and could start to hope that he might live a reasonable term. He had everything going for him, brilliant at the violin, science and anything else he occasionally deigned to put his mind to. His hair had grown back, curlier than before, dark and unruly and blown into wildness that did something unwelcome to Mycroft when he saw them through a crowd of strangers or woke to find his face close enough to smell them. Like the snake hair of Medusa, he felt them coil and slide towards him in his dreams.

………….

Sherlock was pulling bits of something that had been a food mixer apart when Mycroft got home from work. 

'So, brother. Kenwood Chef this time? Cook aware?' 

'Mycroft don't be dull. Cook hadn't used it for ages, just ages. I need a part out of it.'

'Your definition of "ages" being...?'

'At least a month.'

Mycroft cocked his head to one side. He remembered a specially fluffy Madeira cake last week. They didn't mix themselves and cook's hands were too arthritic to beat it by hand. He hated it when Sherlock treated him like an idiot. Sherlock was the idiot in comparison to himself, after all. But then, Sherlock had other gifts. 

Sherlock flushed under his gaze. That was one of his gifts, Mycroft noted. He looked like no one else on this earth, his little brother. Which was why no one could take his place, for Mycroft.

'Nearly a month.'

Mycroft folded his arms and shook his head.

Sherlock scowled, now more annoyed than embarrassed at his fibs being seen through so easily. When he spoke it was little more than a mutter. 

'Over a week.' 

'I should beat you for that lie, Sherlock. Why do you do it? You must know I see straight through it!’

Sherlock came close then and Mycroft could feel the warm dampness of his breath as he whispered. 

'Because... I like to watch you dance, brother mine...' 

And then, silently, he was gone again.

.............

 

In all the nights, at first all week and latterly just at weekends that the two brothers had shared a bed, one issue had surprisingly not raised its head, so to speak. 

It did tonight. 

Mycroft woke at three in the morning when he heard a noise. He thought for a moment it was intruders, but the house was comprehensively burglar alarmed and anyway it was closer than that. 

He turned over in bed, quietly, only to hear another small sound, some way between a hiss and a moan. Sherlock, still seemingly asleep, was clutching a pillow between his thighs and pumping his hips in a way that jolted Mycroft deep down low in his body.

Transfixed, he could only watch as his brother thrust and jerked his penis into the bedclothes. The back of Sherlock’s neck and his hair were damp with sweat. Mycroft wanted to towel him dry, but more than that he wanted to ease the desperate ache inside him. To run his hands down the sweat-slicked back. To lay himself over Sherlock and cover him and claim him. To spear him to ecstasy and then to stillness, just as his own heart was speared by Sherlock simply living and breathing. That if only he could do that, then they would never be apart, never be forced to do without each other.

Mycroft shook himself, realising that this was his Rubicon. He had just fantasised for the first time ever, about fucking his brother. 

His actions now would potentially ruin them both. 

What should he do? To wake his brother would alert Sherlock to the fact that Mycroft had been watching. And also to the fact, the undeniable fact, that Mycroft had become hard doing so. Very hard. Sherlock might be disgusted, and Mycroft hated that idea. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that Sherlock might NOT be disgusted and Mycroft feared that much, much more now, because he didn't know if he was strong enough to resist anymore. 

He was watching, still and intended to allow Sherlock to climax and hopefully fall back into a peaceful state without waking. 

But as the noises continued, and the eyelashes fluttered and Sherlock approached his peak, Mycroft lost control and thrust a hand into his own pyjama bottoms and cried out as he took hold of his cock and pushed into his hand no more than four times before he came, eyes closed, mouth open, moments after his brother climaxed. 

When he came to, there was semen covering his hand and Sherlock was contemplating him with a small smile on his face. No longer asleep. Witness to his humiliation, his display of his transgression. 

Mycroft swore, leapt up from the bed, dragging up his sweated and soiled nightwear. Shaking, he plunged towards the door, and opened it. He had to get out of here.

'Myc. Don't be silly. You don't need to go. There's no harm in it.'

Sherlock’s voice quavered slightly, as if he knew the stakes were higher now and he was uncertain of victory.

Mycroft turned around in the doorway.

'Sherlock. You don't know what you are getting into! You are too young to judge the risk and you are my brother. My younger brother. This is not rugby mates jacking off to see who can shoot the farthest, you bloody idiot. We are brothers. Brothers, Sherlock. Related. You are fifteen. And I am old enough to know that this is wrong, that you need to find someone, someone you care for, outside of the Holmes hothouse. This, this arrangement, cannot continue. I will take steps to ensure that it does not. Get some sleep. I will let you know what will happen when it is arranged.'

Sherlock looked shocked, stunned. In all his fifteen years, no one, especially not Mycroft, had ever really said “no” to him when there was something he really wanted. By virtue of being young, or rich, or beautiful, or a combination of all of these things, he found that people wilted before him. Now it was he who seemed to shrink before this new truth. 

………….

The next day at work, sleepless and haggard, but resolute, Mycroft got back in touch with the Maths faculty at Cambridge which SIS had suggested he 'chat to' a while back. He travelled up by train that night, played an exhausting game of tennis with a Don who appeared to know more about Mycroft's employers SIS than Mycroft himself did and at length found himself with a spare room in Peterhouse and a Bedder who came each morning to vacuum and tut about the cake crumbs and the weather and her hip. The carpet was grey and threadbare and Cambridge was freezing cold and alien to him, but he was safe from himself and so was his brother. Besides, the view from his window was pleasing and he could hear the bell chiming in the clock tower. It quieted his mind. The work did too. 

He would not come home again for over a year. 

It was a year that marked Sherlock indelibly, like a UV stamp, invisible to some, except those who knew the brand was there. Towards the end of the year, the damage was to become much more visible. Mycroft would wish he had not stayed away so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At Cambridge the college cleaners are called ‘bedders’. At Oxford, the same cleaners are called ‘scouts’. My scout was called Mrs Williams and she was a delight. Peterhouse is one of the most traditional colleges, and one of the last to become mixed sex, being originally an all male college. For a scurrilous but funny parody of a fictional version of Peterhouse, read ‘Porterhouse Blue’ by Tom Sharpe (or better still get hold of the 1987 TV adaptation by Malcolm Bradbury).
> 
> This chapter is influenced by the Bruce Springsteen track ‘Cover Me’ from the album  
> Born In the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen  
> https://itun.es/gb/eGfjm


	9. Cambridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft stays away. Sherlock starts to spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of drug abuse, clinical anxiety

For a few days, Sherlock seemed to exist in a bubble. Mycroft had left, saying he would be back soon. It didn't panic Sherlock, because his brother had never gone for more than a week, not ever. So he would be back soon. Each morning he woke in the attic, alone and shaking, teeth clenched and heart racing. But since he knew Mycroft would be certain to be back from Cambridge today, ("he must, he will, by the time the sun sinks below the building opposite it would be so"), he could calm himself and rise, dress and make his way to school. Any feelings he did not wish to address about his brother's absence and there were plenty of them fermenting, were filed away in his Mind Palace, the secret place he stored things that were precious, or painful, or which made him so afraid that to contemplate them was intolerable; his reflection in the mirror seemed certain to dissolve into bones and blood onto the floor. 

................

But then the world failed to deliver his expectation. Mycroft did not come back. A week then two, had passed and as his force of will alone did not bring about his brother's return, Sherlock’s incipient anxiety started to escalate rapidly. It was such an small, ordinary word, anxiety and it utterly failed to convey the physicality of the things that started to happen.

His skin began to prickle and buzz, all over, as though he was plugged into an electrical socket. There was no rest from it, day or night, and it exhausted him. But he couldn't sleep . He lay awake, gasping for breath. He shook. All the time. Both arms, both legs.

His pale creamy skin developed a rash, mottling the creamy perfection with angry livid redness. There was no allergy, his skin was angry because his mind was deep in distress and told his body to be angry too. 

His head ached and when he tried to move it to relieve any trapped nerve or crick, bright white flashes interrupted his sight. When he lay down (infrequently) to sleep it was no better. A feeling of teetering at the edge of a cliff, about to topple off and of water cascading cold over his brain, striking just at the point of sleep, made rest impossible. 

His eyes were pale slits encircled by dark smudges of exhaustion, hollow, dull and disinterested in experiments, schoolwork or any of the miniature models now gathering dust on his table and shelves in the nursery. 

Even his mother noticed that he was looking dreadful. She clucked and tutted and tried to help by leaving New Age-style inspirational maxims on small post it notes stuck around the house. It was her latest mechanism for rationalising the ironies of life. Sherlock hated them, hated the stock photos of a forest in the fall, or an eagle soaring, or a school of dolphins breaking the surface of the water, with their smug, pointless epithets. What use were they to a boy who needed his brother back? 

Not satisfied with just ripping them down, he collected them carefully and then asked his mother one evening if he should light the drawing room fire. It was only as he stood away and the glow of the flames licked up that she saw hundreds of the sticky notes burning merrily in front of her. She thought he'd been collecting them to put in an album, to refer to, to help him. She glared at him. He moved to the window, flung open the French doors and stalked out into the dark of the garden, leaving the doors wide open and his mother freezing. 

She wasn't sure where they had gone so wrong with her beloved boy. She wondered idly if he might end up poisoning the lot of them, or smothering them in her beds? Whether he was quite well? It wasn't that she thought he was bad, just that he didn't seem to recognise the normal rules of behaviour. And since she didn't begin to understand him, she had to allow the possibility that his behaviour might actually have no limits. 

She was right about the lack of limits. Just wrong about the direction the meltdown would be facing.

...................

As Mycroft's absence lengthened into a month and longer, Sherlock began to be more and more unwilling to leave the house, to be involved in any kind of social activity. Only his room was safe, only there could he concentrate on the memories of the contact and comfort his brother had brought him.

Using his knowledge of chemistry and instead of visiting a doctor (he had quite enough of doctors to last a lifetime and still had annual checks to make sure the tumour had not returned), Sherlock started to self-medicate his symptoms. 

He bought beta-blockers to control the shaking and his heart rate. They were easy enough to find in small ads. He experimented to find the combination of ingredients that would boost his serotonin levels and reduce his anxiety. 

It didn't work. He couldn't find the right combination, it was more complicated than it looked,and he found it hard to concentrate, when all he could think about was his brother, what he was doing, who he was with. He wondered if Mycroft thought about him, especially at night. He thought about Mycroft, all the time he woke and dreamed about him at night. It became routine to wake exhausted and bearing the guilty evidence of those dreams like the yellow cross of the heretic.

....................

Failing to solve his problems in any of his usual ways, Sherlock started to experiment with more “commercially available” substances. Weed made him feel stupid, ecstasy too erratic. He didn't really want to get as far as smack or crack and so concluded that cocaine might help.

He was fifteen years old.

One might think it would be difficult for a fifteen year old to get hold of cocaine. In London, in the twenty-first century, it is not. Not for someone of Sherlock's wily intelligence and willingness to take, embrace even, risks that for most would be red-lights. After several dead ends, his first coke was scored from the mate of an elder brother of a boy at school. He thought it expensive and innocuous-looking and didn't know the right technique to use it, though he was aware of the basics. A twenty, a razor blade and a borrowed mirror later, Sherlock had a new best friend - only friend - and the beginnings of a coke habit that rapidly escalated. 

His mother wondered if he had a cold. All that sniffing. But was glad her son had cheered up. 

............

In Cambridge, Mycroft was enjoying the benefits of the academic bubble of Oxbridge. The original short stay he planned had become open-ended. The porter's lodge represented a drawbridge protecting him from the outside world and meals were laid on in the buttery and the dining room three times a day. 

As well as being one of the smallest and oldest Cambridge colleges, Peterhouse was one of the richest and its wine cellar held one of the finest stocks in the city. The food didn't match the wine, Petrus and margarine fluff masquerading as syllabub at Formal Hall did not equate and there were never enough potatoes for the ten at each table, but he didn't have to cook and could concentrate on his work. 

The work was the real fascination. He was ostensibly under the Mathematics faculty, but in reality his timetable was made up of tutorials with dons whose names didn't always appear on college records and whose day job seemed to involve 'a lot of foreign travel and meeting new people, not all of them friendly.' He spent a good deal of his time, too, learning a number of foreign languages ('good for your CV, Mycroft) and within a few months was in possession of a decent grasp of Russian, Arabic, Mandarin and (weirdly), Old Norse. 

Sometimes, in the summer, he lay on the lawns next to the Cam and watched the undergraduates punting down the river, picnics in hampers and girl or boyfriends lounging on cushions. For a while he would concentrate on his work, but eventually memories intruded. Then, he thought of Sherlock, couldn't help himself, imagining his brother indolent and sun-kissed, white shirt untucked from tight jeans, lounging in a punt and laughing, his long pale neck exposed and a cigarette hanging from his long fingers, almost trailing in the dark green water. Mycroft steering the punt, the drips from the long wooden pole trailing behind them, progressing further into the Backs until at last, a secret place under the curtain of a huge weeping willow, where the punt was tied up and the brothers lay on the cool green grass side by side and there was a kiss which was in no way brotherly.

Those thoughts were the bearable type. At night, his dreams were less courtly. Unrestrained by consciousness, baser instincts seemed to take over. Perhaps he just really, really needed to get laid, but he wasn't interested in that. It wasn't that he couldn't appreciate the aesthetic qualities of others, but it was as if he watched them on television, or through thick glasses blurring them. Only Sherlock appeared in sharp focus, running, laughing, sleeping, even scowling. His brother was the adamantine sharp flashing diamond to their dull pewter gleam for him. 

So the dreams had free rein with him. They generally involved some form of control over his brother, Sherlock being restrained, by chains, by leather, by commands. They often also included an element of humiliation, though that seemed to be more at Sherlock's behest than Mycroft's idea. And they culminated in violent and vigorous sex, Mycroft invariably as penetrator, Sherlock as needy, demanding, noisy and gleeful recipient.

After the sex, there seemed to be quiet and almost a trance, affection and caring, long baths, soft scented towels and sleep. 

………….

It was these dreams that made Mycroft afraid to return home, afraid to see Sherlock, who would surely deduce everything just by seeing his elder brother's face. He could not bear the shame and the humiliation of that. And so he stayed away, working in the college library over the Vacs and on his various "special projects", the most recent of which had involved signing the Official Secrets Act ("Purely routine, even the cleaners sign it, just standard procedure").

He wondered if the OSA covered him never telling anyone about the disgusting fantasies he had about his brother....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to Peterhouse College, Cambridge as I'm sure they don't serve margarine fluff. It is based on my own Oxford college's approach to cuisine and potato portion management some decades back, and should not put off any potatophiles from applying to Peterhouse.
> 
> The description of the physical symptoms of Sherlock's anxiety is based on my own experiences but I recognise that every serious anxiety sufferer has a different experience. For me, medical intervention was necessary and medication too, and it transformed my quality of life, but it isn't right for everyone. What I would say is, don't be afraid to seek help if you think your anxiety is getting out of hand, or if physical symptoms are starting to manifest themselves.


	10. Unpalatable choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's drug use gets out of hand. He needs money and his dealer knows just how he can get it. Mycroft is oblivious of the precipice his brother stands on the edge of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use, corporal punishment and mentions of prostitition

Sherlock had been through his allowance. He'd been down the back of the sofas for lost change. He'd borrowed money from boys at school, from relatives his mother didn't even know he'd been in touch with, from those he could blackmail because he'd worked out their secrets. He'd sold several of his possessions, including his bike, most expensive microscope and a watch his father had given him before his father had decided that Sherlock wasn't worthy of the Holmes name and stopped giving him time, let alone presents.

He'd even raided his mother's handbag, study drawer and charity tin. It was the first time he'd been grateful for the distracted mental state of the woman who had seen fit to bring him into existence. No point contacting the other party to that questionable experiment, he concluded. Father was living it large in the U.S and seemed, frankly, to have put his peculiar English upper-class family behind him. He'd got in on a big property deal and made a lot of money, quickly. Sherlock despised him more than ever, if that were possible.

It had been all right, sort of, while he was still snorting the coke. But he'd seen the effect on the septums of unfortunate celebrities of keeping that up too long, given the quantities he seemed to require these days to make putting one foot instead of the other remotely bearable. So he'd taken the logical, scientific approach, done some research and was now injecting the stuff. Only the best quality, a seven per cent solution. Sometimes with a tourniquet, sometimes not, it depended on his mood and how he wanted the hit to arrive.. 

He would be sixteen soon, just not soon enough. He would get part of his trust fund then. About half a million, not much in comparison to the sums at 18 and 25, but enough to get rid of his current issue, which was a lack of cash flow. Thank goodness for Mycroft taming the Holmes Estate Trustees. 

...............

He needed more money, a big pile of it, the coke wasn't cheap. He just wasn't sure how to get it?

He was far too distinctive looking to be a burglar or a shoplifter and thought it dreary enough to work in a bank to inflict the trauma of a bank robbery on anyone. 

He had no idea what he was going to do. More research required. Being a scientific sort of fellow, Sherlock decided to ask his most regular dealer, Tony, what his other clients did to get the money they needed to sustain their habit. He was pretty sure not all of them paid cash at point of sale.

He found Tony in one of his usual haunts, skulking in an alleyway between the off-licence and the bookies in Southwark, near the Cathedral. Tony was in his usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt, invariably accompanied by brilliantly white trainers and he tipped his chin in acknowledgement as the gaunt teenager approached. He despised Sherlock’s type in all honesty, trust funded floppy-haired entitled pricks who had no reason to turn to drugs other than boredom with life being so terribly dreadfully fucking easy. At least, that's how Tony saw it, because that's all Tony saw and all he wanted to see. And he sold drugs to them anyway, because they were good payers. 

This one, though, he knew was starting to struggle, with the money and with the habit. The signs were all there. But at least he was a looker. So he was still unfairly advantaged in life, because he could earn his hits...

Sherlock leaned back against the dirty brick wall of the alleyway next to Tony. His long  
-sleeved T-shirt covered the track marks, but couldn't conceal the visible ribs, nor the dark circles round his eyes or his shaking arms. He lit a cigarette, another habit Mycroft would be furious about now he was up to a packet a day. Mycroft… He stubbed it out. Then lit another and took a long slow sucking drag, slowly blowing out the smoke. It was the wrong moment to think of his brother.

Tony knew he didn't have the money, but wanted the gear. Sherlock knew that he knew. So Sherlock asked his question to Tony, what people did, other than shoplifting and the like, to get the money for the drugs? 

'Well really, there's not much else, is there. You either nick stuff you haven't got and flog it, or you use what God gave you and sell that instead. There's not really anything else.'

Sherlock frowned, confused for a moment, before reality dawned. He swallowed, then blinked several times. 

'You mean “doing things”, with people? Like an escort?'

'Like what an escort really does, kid, not what they say they do. Like sucking cocks and taking it sweetly and gratefully up the ass. Saying thank you afterwards. Calling them Daddy if they go for that. Good looking posh boy like you would make a lot. You're the twink type a lot of guys go for. They can fantasise that you're even younger, see?'

Tony’s smile was positively wolfish. 

'Oh.' 

There was a long pause. Sherlock looked like a deer, deciding whether to hide or run.

Then he nodded, stiffly and primly.

'I think if you don't mind, perhaps I don't need any cocaine today.'

And Sherlock was gone. 

................

It didn't take him long to be back though. Tony knew it wouldn't, could have told him that, they never did take long. He'd seen the hunger in the boy's eyes, he was in too deep now. That was good for business.

He had to admit though, the kid looked terrified. 

When Sherlock turned up three days later, he was dressed in clothes Tony had never seen before, smelling of Scotch. When Sherlock asked him for an advance on the drugs to “help him through it”, which Tony never ever did, he'd be a fucking laughing stock, he took a degree of pity on him and gave him a generous twist. The kid would need it, he thought. There was nothing to him. He wondered if the kid was on dope, he seemed out of it, muttering under his breath. Still, not his problem, eh? He watched as Sherlock snorted the drug.

Once he was done, Sherlock said in a shaking voice that he'd try - hesitation then - sucking cocks, but not… the other. Tony said that was fine, but that he'd get a cut for every client, twenty five per cent. Sherlock looked ready to cry or pass out, Tony wasn't sure which. But it wasn't his business to care and he'd already distributed mobile phone photo footage of Sherlock to some of his wealthier contacts. He was pretty sure that they would be happy to wait for the boy to drop his reservations and his pants once Sherlock realised he could make money five times as fast by offering up his pussy and his clients had, so to speak, softened him up. 

The response had been way more positive than he could have expected. Plenty of interest in blowjobs, but also a bounty that was escalating rapidly for whoever got the prize of fucking him. Tony had told them he could guarantee 100% this one was a virgin, hadn't even been with a girl. 

'Don't worry, kid. You'll be fine. It's like riding a bike or learning to swim. Once you got the skills, you got them for life.'

He clapped an arm around Sherlock's skinny shoulders and marched him away down roads and alleys to his rendezvous point with his contacts. He didn't really like the men he was meeting with, that he was handing the boy over to, but they could ensure he got the best gear available in return for his services and no trouble from the authorities and he reckoned this one would be worth quite a lot of that goodwill, quite apart from the commission. These clients were important men, with influence and power and it was worth saving the best morsels for them. 

...............

Mycroft stood in front of the age-pitted mirror above the fireplace of his set of rooms in the Regency building in College. He was dressed in immaculate black tie. It suited him, he knew, his figure, his face. There was formal hall every night, three courses, waiters, wine, but tonight was a gourmet “super-formal” hall and there would be much better fare than margarine fluff on offer. Tonight was pheasant and game chips, preceded by rabbit terrine and followed by Crepes Suzette, flamed at the table, with a groaning cheese board and coffee to finish. 

Just for a moment, he thought of dinners at home, of Mycroft in suit and tie, Father carving and Sherlock slinking in late and usually covered in mud, invariably being bellowed at and sent to wash and "change out of those damned scruffy rags". This usually only resulted in Sherlock returning to the table with clean hands and wearing the most creased garments Mycroft had ever seen. He didn't know how Sherlock managed it, because they had a woman who came in and did all the ironing. He suspected deliberate sabotage. Occasionally and for bloody-minded mischief, Sherlock came down in one of his mother's blouses, usually something sheer or revealing. Once there was a dress, long and geometrically patterned. He was eight, but that hadn't stopped his father from ripping it off the boy and beating him roundly over the warming trolley in front of the rest of them with his slipper. Sherlock still had faint marks on his rib age from the burns the serving dishes made that day. 

He shook himself, checked over a few of his latest conclusions to some especially tricky problems he'd been set, then collected together his keys and college ID card. He put thoughts of his brother to one side. He'd been invited to a meeting in London in three days a time, in an anonymous building just off Whitehall, with a man he'd never heard of but who seemed to know a very great deal about him. 

He was looking forward to the Crepes Suzette.


	11. Wolves walk the smartest streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to get the money for cocaine. He's in much, much deeper than he realises.  
> The next friendly people he sees are Lestrade and Donovan.
> 
> See end for warnings

Sherlock had expected to be stationed on a thoroughfare of some kind, his trembling limbs and nervous expression in full public view, or maybe loitering in some back path or alleyway, behind or between buildings, Tony gathering clients and bringing them to him. There were plenty of dark quiet corners in London's street plan, because much of it was unaltered since medieval times. Christopher Wren might have built St Paul's, but the rest of his master plan for the rebuilding of the city, featuring wide Parisian style boulevards and a grid design more like New York than Neasden, was never to come to fruition. 

Sherlock was taken aback, therefore, to be led by Tony down to near the river in Mayfair, to surroundings that were more Holmes than whore and up to an immaculate Art Deco building in brick and Coade stone. 

The lobby was more like a smart hotel than a brothel, the floor a marble checkerboard in black and white, fluted etched-glass wall lights and immaculate lifts that carried them smoothly to the fourth floor. Sherlock was sweating and white now, trepidation turning to fear as each floor clicked on then off on the display. 

When they exited the lift, Tony indicated Sherlock should follow him and at the end of the deep-plush carpeted corridor, opened a door which produced Sherlock’s first wave of cold, icy panic. Firstly, because it was a sandwich of wood with a steel core. Secondly because there seemed to be numerous locks and security cameras. And lastly, because once he was inside, he realised that there were already people here. Three middle aged men, sitting on sofas and drinking. One was smoking small cigars. 

Tony pushed him forward, not quite as gently as he had been with the boy previously. Sherlock glanced around to take in the room décor and saw a number of large video cameras positioned around the room. He pointed at them and asked Tony what they were there for.

Tony slapped him gently on the back,

'Oh don't worry about them. One of the guys is a photographer and uses this place for sittings sometimes. Just private stuff, some special interest topics. You know. Have a drink and I'll introduce you to everyone.' 

Sherlock didn't “know”. So he nodded. He could do with some Dutch Courage. He accepted a glass of brandy from Tony and downed it quickly. It had a slightly gritty taste, but he did not think too much of it, at least, not until the room started to blur and his whole body seemed to heat up and feel completely remote from his brain's instructions. 

He didn't remember Tony introducing him to anyone, just wanted to lie down. But Tony was kind and seemed to know that and led him to a bed. It was clean and comfortable and Sherlock sank down gratefully onto his front. If he could just sleep it off, he would be fine.  
And maybe the men would be kind. It would soon be over anyway and he could leave with the coke he'd earned. He'd earn more than enough sucking off these three. In five weeks he would be sixteen and the money issue would be a thing of the past. Just to get through this.

.........

He heard rustling, muffled sounds. Someone opened his mouth, putting something on his tongue. After that, coolness and a rush of air. He felt wrong, somehow – he wasn't going to be able to give blowjobs like this, Tony would be angry. He didn't think an angry Tony would be pleasant. An image of Mycroft's concerned face appeared in his confusion of thoughts and it made bleary tears fall. Someone pinched his nose, opened his mouth again, and now drops of something, hit his tongue. 

The next thing he was aware of was pain. One of the men, who Sherlock thought blearily he recognised from the TV news was behind him. Something hard and terrible was being forced between his buttocks. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound never came, just pure terror and shock. The pain was a veil now, a shroud, a tomb. 

It was agony, sharp and violent, this pain, so when at last a needle slipped into a vein, he was grateful, thankful even. 

And then he was aware of little more. Over the next few hours, he slipped in and out of consciousness, the pain and sensations coming and going. Most of these occasions of relative lucidity, his mind made an autonomous decision to remove him from the arena of awareness. What remained was occasional muffled noise, contorted faces and the feeling of being thumped with a sledgehammer, right inside, accompanied by sharp pain. 

................

Mycroft had enjoyed the pheasant. There weren't many more Hall nights, it was almost the end of the summer term. He felt happy. He had decided that he could return home now, that enough time had elapsed. Sherlock would be busy with his own life by now. Would have met other people, maybe even have a new crush. Bittersweet to think of, but for the best for Sherlock. 

Especially since that meeting with the man in Cambridge Circus last week. It had been the final part of the process. Mycroft was now the latest in a long line of intelligence agents to be recruited from his college. He strolled back to his rooms feeling well-fed and optimistic, pleased with himself, considering a small Scotch before bed, perhaps something to listen to on the radio. 

..............

Every day, at about six am, the tiny, increasingly ancient wizened creature that was Mrs Esther Naomi Baker, of the anomaly in architectural form that was her squat red-brick council block right in the heart of Mayfair, let her old tortoiseshell cat Tattie out and fed the flitting, chirping birds in the small square of yard outside her council flat. There wasn't much in the yard, not really. Just a small retractable washing line that the birds liked to shit on, a confusing array of wheelie bins and recycling boxes and weeds. She'd been here over forty years and could barely remember living anywhere else now. It had been smarter, when it was new and she was young. But she was glad to be old, because it meant memories faded.

She watched as her cat sat down to clean himself in the sunshine. Such clean things, cats, not like dogs. She couldn't abide dogs, yappy, messy creatures. Cats were survivors, like her and her generation, what was left of them. She stretched a little in the sunshine, pleased she'd be able to put the sheets out later. Popped back into the kitchen to fetch the cereal packet, it could go into the green recycling box, they should be coming today. The lorries were so big now and all automated, not like the old days with the bin men so strong and unfazed by carrying the bins by hand. 

So much had changed since she arrived in London after the war, traumatised and marked by a number on her arm that signified her as being less than human. Only meeting her Daniel had kept her going. He had been all she wanted, all she knew, until she lost him eight years ago to double pneumonia. Now she was alone again, the last of her kind. Her story would be lost with her.

……………….

As she put the cardboard into the right plastic box, she stumbled slightly and had to fling a hand out to save herself. Her hand banged against the side of the large communal bin for garden waste. No one used it much, no one had much of a garden round here. It was too big really, but she supposed everyone in flats got the same, whatever the size of the block. 

It was then she heard a small sound, which she could have sworn came from the garden waste bin. Perhaps a cat, trapped. Dumped even? How people could do that, she had no idea, but they did, she knew. And better than most, she understood how cruel people could be, how inhuman.

She couldn't open the lid. She was less than five foot, Daniel had called her "his little doll" and could put both hands round her waist span all the days they were married. She was still slim, and proud of it. 

She knocked at her neighbours’ doors. Stanley wasn't much younger than her, so she went to the other side, Majic and Elena's, first. But they weren't in, both at work, they worked hard. Elena was a care worker and Majic a builder. So she resorted to Stanley's place, with the faded wheelbarrow planter and the ‘no door-to-door sellers’ sticker from the Neighbourhood Watch.. He'd worked in a factory during the war, hadn't been allowed to join up and fight. Reserved occupation, they called it, and being designated that was both a blessing and a curse. His mates had treated him as if he was a coward, shirking active service. Esther didn't think the same. He had no option, she knew that, what with being a skilled metal worker and his factory was tasked with making weapons casings. Doing his bit, that's what he was doing, just like the rest of the fighters. They were friends, had been for years.

Stanley was in, Stanley was always in, that was the one good thing about their age, always around for a chat and she explained about the cat. He shuffled out in an egg-stained cardigan, trousers worn shiny on the seat with equal wear from age and poverty, wearing bulky tartan slippers. He put his hat on, despite the sunshine. A lady would always expect a gentleman to wear a hat outdoors, his Mam had always told him that. It was a Homburg, dark grey with a matching silk ribbon, fraying now. He thought it would see him out, though he eyed an occasional example in charity shops with a considering gaze.

The bin didn't smell very nice, Stanley thought. He supposed bins didn't generally, but this was the garden waste one. That ought to be ok, was normally ok. He told Esther to stand back a little and lifted the lid. 

No cat. 

A few buddleia branches. 

Grass clippings

Some cat litter, probably shouldn't be there.

Something else that shouldn't be there. A pile of clothes. Bloodstained clothes. 

..........

Stanley peered closer, as well as he could, the bin was big and deep and he wasn't a tall man. Not like the kids nowadays, they seemed like a race of giants. Loud intimidating giants.

He saw, just then, just a small bit, the dirty matted fabric move, maybe it was rats?. A tiny sound, which did sound like an animal, but not like a rat. Not at all like a rat. He knew their sounds. Not just clothes, then. Something else was in there. 

Stanley swallowed hard. 

Esther tapped him on the shoulder.

'Did you find anything? Is it a cat? 

He closed the lid again, turned towards her and shook his head. 

Nah, love. Not a cat, don't worry about that,'Esther. Could you go and make us a cuppa splosh, love? Two sugars, heaped, lots of milk. Thanks love.'

She caught a whiff then, of incontinence mixing with the leafy sweet smell of the grass decomposing. And for the first time in over half a century, memories intruded that were intolerable and were supposed to have been confined to another lifetime. Images of another time, another life. Her family. Warsaw. The camp.

Outwardly, she nodded, smiled and went inside to get the big teapot warming and put the gas on to boil the kettle. Her hand shook. She put the kettle on the base of the sink and used both hands to turn the tap. The home help, Dolores, was supposed to have brought a gripper thing to help turning things, but she'd forgotten it again. Esther supposed she had a lot to remember, they ran them off their feet and never had enough time to really chat. She wasn't a chatty person, not really, but not talking to anyone could make anyone a bit…lonely.

..............

 

The police came quickly and in force. The officer in charge, an open faced and handsome man in his late thirties, London born and bred, was an experienced cop. He'd seen most things. But this was…different, somehow. It wasn't so much the state of the victim, though that was shocking enough. It was the fact that as he sped into the back service road to the properties, the huge bin lorry passed him, steel jaws three metres tall endlessly biting together. Fifteen minutes later, if the cat had slept in, or their owner, their victim would have been torn apart, limb from limb and crushed into unrecognisable chunks whilst still alive.

Donovan was already there as was Anderson. Both of them looked grim, having just finished speaking to the ambulance staff. Lestrade poked his head in the ambulance. He couldn't see much, not now the… person… was swaddled in blankets, but it was enough. He wondered if there was anywhere on the kid that wasn't black with bruises. They were trying to stabilise him, but with the number of fractures and definite internal bleeding they were having a job of it, which was why the vehicle hadn't yet moved. 

They'd found a number in his mobile phone though. Donovan wanted to know whether to call it. Greg thought she still looked too upset by the scene and held his hand out for the phone. Expensive model, newish, but this was the only number in the phone book. Very odd for a kid of - well - a teenager, what kind of kid these days only has one number in their phone. Hard to tell his exact age, the state he was in. 

...................

He'd clearly been dumped here. And this wasn't the first, not by a long chalk. There was starting to be a pattern, though it was over years, decades even and was only just becoming faintly visible. Three other kids, this ones age or a bit younger. All male, all slim and good looking, all disappeared off the street. 

This one was unusual in several ways though. It was all wrong, all back-to-front. 

The others had been missing persons reports and then body parts discovered months or years later. Enough to give DNA for identification but not enough to say how they died, whether they were killed and then dumped or dismembered whilst still alive. The remains turned up on rubbish tips. Until then the kids had just been three more young lads disappearing and assumed to have run off. Somehow when it was boys, that was the assumption. With girls, foul play was more readily contemplated. 

This one, though. He was alive. And he had only recently been abducted. They didn't have a missing person report to match him. All they had was the phone, no money, just the phone. 

And the name listed on it.

"Mycroft Holmes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for abduction  
> Warning for rape  
> Warning for mentions of the Holocaust


	12. Drowning Inside Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is found, and his injuries assessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of serious injury

Mycroft's mobile rang as he was getting off the train at Liverpool Street station. He never made it to his briefing at Cambridge Circus.

A Big Issue seller dropped his precious bundle of magazines to catch him as Mycroft crumpled and supported the tall man as the telephone fell from his hand. 

The on-call concourse cleaner, a young Somalian man with enviably white teeth and admirable patience with the generally bad-tempered commuters, then propped this smart City type against his none-too-clean council wheeled cart and sighed while he paged for medical assistance. All the man kept saying was 'Lock'. Which was gibberish, obviously, so they ignored him and hoped the medics and the cops turned up quickly. They did.

After being forced to submit to all sorts of tests in the back of an ambulance, Mycroft's protests that he was not unwell but had been shocked by bad news, had been finally received and understood, it seemed. He was released by the medics and got straight into a taxi to head for Bart’s, where he'd been told his brother had been taken. 

………………

Lestrade's heart sank as the tall figure into the side room at Bart’s. A young man, but some years older than the victim as far as they could tell. Related, judging by the surnames? Lestrade especially hated this bit, telling the relatives. On the phone they'd been stubbornly vague, saying just that Sherlock had been in an accident, hinting at a mugging.

Mycroft's gaze swept around the assembled throng of police. Five, in total. A lot, really, for a common or garden mugging. Cold prickles swept down his spine. His eyes narrowed. 

'My brother wasn't in an accident, was he, Inspector...?'

Greg looked down, then up at Mycroft, meeting his gaze steadily. Greg had puppy dog eyes, all dark brown and honest and somehow sad but kind. Intelligent, but not earth-shattering, Mycroft concluded with a glance. Bisexual, married to a woman, but… No, not happily.

'Lestrade, Greg Lestrade. And no, Mr Holmes, we don't believe so. We believe he was violently assaulted.' 

Mycroft frowned. 

'Assaulted is an admirably wide term, Inspector. Would you be able to put some meat on the bones? Has Sherlock been mugged?' 

'Mr Holmes, could you sit down for a moment for me?'

Mycroft was used to issuing such requests, not acceding to them. Now, he saw a look of what he really hoped wasn't pity in Lestrade's eyes which served to subdue his arrogance. As blind fear started to rise in his abdomen, he fiddled with his watch.

'Tell me.'

He thought he spoke normally, but heard it come out as a whisper.

By the time Greg had finished speaking, Mycroft seemed far away in his own thoughts. 

'I made a mistake. I should have said yes.’

The words were barely audible, but Greg just caught them, and leaned forward. 

'Sorry what do you mean?'

Mycroft shook himself. 

'I - I - my brother – Sherlock - he wanted me to stay at home. I did not. I... I regret it, that  
I did not stay.'

Greg nodded understandingly. It wasn't the whole story, Mycroft knew that too well, but it satisfied Greg. 

................

Sherlock was trapped by the weight of his own body inside the dark tomb of the waste bin and it was a body that was now killing him. He was having to use all his remaining strength just to take a tiny, scratching, agonising breath. He felt like he was drowning inside, air getting thinner and more and more out of reach. The pain of it was excruciating and was only getting worse, like an army of a thousand men crushing him, like a drinks can in a vacuum tube. 

He knew drowning in the sea was, after a while, not a bad way to die, so he tried to console himself with that, but he wasn't sure if the same applied when you drowned internally? He knew his lungs were filling with blood and fluid. He knew his framework of bones was compromised and smashed up. He knew he was ruined, too, he could feel too much now, between his legs, behind, under, inside. He cursed himself with explicit anger and impotence. He should have done more research, on all of it, or at least on quite a lot of things. 

No matter now, it was too late for regrets. He would find out about drowning through practical experience, his last of all.

All he could hear now was the loud rasp and the faint gurgle of his attempts to breathe and the noise of sorrow and pain. At some point, the air was almost gone and he slumped down, still and quiet. The noise ceased, all at once. Still.

He didn't hear the old woman, or her neighbour, nor the telephone call and the sirens signalling that help was arriving. He was dreaming of himself and Mycroft, of his narrow bed, thick cotton sheets and the freckles on Mycroft's back, some of them so close together that they touched and made shapes he traced with his finger while his brother slept and smiled. He dreamed of a small house, in the quiet backstreets, plain flat-fronted Georgian, maybe a cobbled mews, of sleepy faced Mycroft and lazy Sundays and night-times rolling like thunder under the bedcovers. He dreamed of his brother's touch, burning and cool, dominant and kind. The dream quietened the roaring in his ears and the turmoil in his head.

Then the dream faded, obliterated by a world filled entirely by a wave of pain that rose and consumed him whole. 

.........................

Getting the broken body out of the bulk waste bin was not easy. They couldn't tip it up, couldn't risk it. A paramedic climbed into the bin to assess the lad and she vetoed the idea. The patient would have to be lifted out, slowly and gently, somehow. 

Sherlock knew nothing of the green and yellow-clothed ambulance staff and their shocked faces, as a makeshift cradle fashioned from a strong builders four handled one ton sack was passed under him in the bin. This enabled a press-ganged parking enforcement lorry with a car crane to lift the cradle and him out of the bin, as slowly and gently as possible, hoping that the neck brace and body board would protect him from further injury. 

It was easier to see his injuries once he was out into the light and lowered to the stretcher. He was naked, aside from the scraps of the T shirt Stanley had seen. It looked like a red T-shirt but turned out later to have been white, the red being copious quantities of blood. He was filthy too, which really wouldn't help his chances. There was an suspected fracture of both tibia and fibia in the right leg, a definite fracture in the right arm and a dislocated shoulder, as far as they could assess. The leg fractures were made even worse by the fact he'd clearly broken at least one of them before, the scars showing that it was likely that the titanium plates from last time now marked the break point of the new fracture. They were also assuming possible spinal and neck injuries, but wouldn't know about those until scans were completed. 

The kid had no money or possessions on him, save for that mobile phone which he must have grasped in his hand until he fell into unconsciousness. 

Lestrade pointed to his victim's head, dark matted hair stuck down, revealing a large rather keloid scar of an incision across a good percentage of his skull. He raised an eyebrow at the paramedic who was examining it. The man nodded.

'Interesting, yes? Surgical, not amateur. Several years old. If I had to guess, I'd say brain surgery. Head trauma also possible but there's another scar underneath it, meaning he's been operated on several times. I've seen it once before. Maybe a brain tumour or something like that?' 

Greg nodded. He flicked through the phone. He hoped the phone contact could shed more light. For now, all he knew was this kid had been through a hell of an ordeal. 

 

....................

 

At the hospital they took the boy straight into have a range of scans. The only bit of good news so far was that the kid's spine and neck were badly bruised, escaping any fractures which might have compromised the spinal cord nerves. The scans also confirmed that his brain had indeed been operated on, as suspected. 

It wasn't all good. Most importantly and urgently, their tests confirmed that this patient was weakening fast and a punctured pair of lungs filling with blood and fluid as well as the risk of damage to his circulation made by the broken leg bones meant they would need to operate on him immediately. 

There were other injuries too, though, which were less life threatening, at least in the medical sense, but which were perhaps more shocking. The examination following the scan was thorough and didn't take long to expose a significant number of internal tissue injuries. Swabs were taken, skin scrapings as well and a small camera was inserted. That led them to take more swabs, this time gel-coated to pick up what seemed to be a small quantity of a strange blueish coloured powder from deep inside the rectum.

By the time Mycroft was having that first conversation with Greg Lestrade, the examinations were complete. Sherlock was already washed clean and shaved for surgery and being wheeled down to theatre. A joint team had been paged and rapidly assembled. Orthopaedics for the fractures. General and thoracic for the internal and external bleeding. And a specialist borrowed from King's for the genital injuries.

The bloods were rushed through and revealed a whole cocktail cabinet of drugs, not only cocaine which they maybe could have predicted from the track marks marring the arms, but a lot of other stuff too, nasty stuff, some of it not well known street fare.

.................

It was a sobering picture, and the medical staff worked quietly and quickly. Someone had done their best to abuse and to kill this young man. And so now, they in their turn, would do their very best to save him and heal him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you spotted the Elton John song line in this chapter (I have to cheer myself up somehow when writing the Angst and Whump). 
> 
> Things will get better, I promise! And there will be Fraternal Smut...


	13. The pain of knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is operated on. Lestrade briefs Mycroft on Sherlock's injuries and questions him about the drugs and sex habits of his brother. Sherlock wakes from the surgery.

Lestrade pulled his fingers through his floppy, iron grey fringe. He'd had the same haircut since his early teens. People seemed to like it, so he'd just kept it, as fashion came and went. He had good teeth, played a lot of sport, so going grey so early didn't bother him, at least his hair was all still firmly attached to his head. It hadn't made him any less popular with women and more than a few men; some even positively went for that Hot Daddy thing.

Mycroft Holmes looked about as far away from a Hot Daddy as one could imagine, now more than ever before. Greg looked at him properly for the first time. “He looks completely destroyed”, he thought, watching Mycroft quietly sitting with his hands in his lap and staring up at the ceiling, unseeing, silent and still. “Poor sod.”

Greg was used to situations like this, the sitting with relatives in a state of disbelief, shock, anger – then occasionally grief. Sometimes it was a traffic accident, but often enough a mindless assault. This soon, it didn't matter so much why they were here, the result was the same for them, the knowledge that they were left with a broken version of the person that they loved. Later on, the reasons for their relative or loved one being here made the path to making sense of their trauma a divergent one. For now, it was a common emotion: blank incomprehension and deep pain. 

Mycroft didn't seem to have noticed as Greg sat down next to him and offered him an indifferent and overpriced cup of coffee. So Greg just sat there and waited. Generally, if he did that, relatives would eventually start to talk. He needed Mycroft to listen to him and then he needed him to talk to him. 

Sally had slipped back into the room and sat quietly by the door. 

...............

Ten minutes later, and the silence had fallen again, heavy and sadder still this time. The incomprehension had been more benign than the pain of knowing, and never being able to unknow. Greg had outlined the circumstances of Sherlock's discovery and the external injuries they had found to date, with quiet dignity.

Mycroft remained totally silent throughout, pursing his lips and rubbing some imaginary dust from the carving in the curved ridged antler handle of his silk umbrella. Now, the gifted coffee untouched on the chipped and faded green plastic table beside him, he looked up at Greg with pleading eyes. 

'When can I see him? I need to see him, I need to be with him. He will - he will be frightened. He's had a lot of bad times in hospitals. He was very sick, twice. Tumour – brain tumour. It was terrible.'

Greg nodded. 

‘As soon as they tell me he's stable in ICU following the surgery. Could be anything from five hours to who knows. Assume ten hours and if it's shorter, it's a bonus is my advice’.

Mycroft sighed and nodded. 

‘He’ll be frightened’, he repeated, almost to himself.

Greg shifted in his seat and glanced up at Sally, who took out her notepad. Time to distract Mycroft with some Q and A.

'Can I ask about your brother, Mr Holmes? I’m sure you know that I have to ask some questions, so that we can try to find who did this. I'm trying to get a picture about how he came to be targeted. Were you aware that he had an established and heavy cocaine habit?'

A further look of pain shot across Mycroft’s face.

'I was not, Inspector. I have been away for the last year in Cambridge, studying at Peterhouse, sponsored by my Civil Service employers. I had no idea at all that he was involved in anything of that kind.'

'Were your parents aware? How was Sherlock when you were home in the holidays?' 

Mycroft shook his head slowly, the gesture full of regret.

'My father lives in the States. We are not in regular contact and our relationship is distant. We communicate, in writing, via the family trustees. My mother - our mother – she has some health issues which mean she is not as alert to circumstances as might have been perhaps been expected, though you will need to confirm that by speaking to her or her wide range of medical and alternative doctors and therapists. 

And I'm sorry to say, Inspector, that I haven't been home for the holidays during the year.' 

Greg glanced at Mycroft and saw his face set now like carved marble, muscles locked and eyes steely, shining slightly. The absence was a self-imposed duty then, not a willing choice. Home not good, but this man definitely wouldn't have willingly abandoned it. He decided to go easy on the guy just for now, he looked ready to snap in two.

'Would you prefer for you to handle speaking to your mother for the time being? Putting her in the picture?'

A slight relief softened Mycroft’s features. Greg found his face strangely fascinating, it wasn't handsome so much as elegant. 

'Thank you, Inspector. She - psychologically she will find this hard. After the tumour, this will bring it back. I think it's highly unlikely she was aware of any drugs issues.'

Greg nodded, sat back, and placed a hand gently on Mycroft's shoulder and gave a small squeeze. 

'Okay. Let's go with that.'

Sally slipped out of the room, as quietly as she had come in, Greg following her shortly afterwards. There would be time for more questions later. Mycroft wasn't going anywhere.

......................

Mycroft was finally allowed to see Sherlock later that day, though not for another eight hours. Having a basic written inventory of his brother's external injuries from Inspector Lestrade still couldn't prepare him for the sight that greeted him.

Sherlock was conscious, and properly stable now, breathing regular and vitals healthy, but when he saw Mycroft he closed his eyes and fat round tears squeezed their way out from his eyelids, from eyes blackened and bruised like almost all of the rest of him. He looked ashamed.

Mycroft couldn't bear for his brother not to look at him. He felt more upset by this rejection than anything else, and didn't understand why Sherlock looked ashamed.

'Look at me, Sherlock. Please.'

Sherlock heard the pleading in Mycroft’s voice, a strange alien sound to his ears that he had never heard before. But he was so tired, and so shamed, and so in despair that he could not give Mycroft what he wanted. 

Sherlock shook his head, then whimpered with the pain and his lower lip trembled. 

'Should be at work, Myc.' It was a faint whisper.

'Why would I be there, ‘Lock? You need me here.'

Sherlock looked at him for the first time, eyes bloodshot and rheumy. 

'I wish they hadn't found me.'

Then he closed his eyes again. 

Mycroft took his hand, very, very gently. He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. Black Oxfords, no broguing, always Lobbs. Antonio made them to his own personal foot last, hand stitched. No shortcuts. Made with care and looked after with more. 

He would do the same for his brother.

Mycroft leaned forward.

‘Never ashamed, Sherlock. Never.’ He kissed his brother’s forehead.

 

............

 

Three hours later, Sherlock was heavily sedated and sleeping. Greg started to get the drip feed of results back from the medical examination. He frowned at what he read and asked Mycroft to step outside again. Back in the family room, the engaged sign displayed, Greg sighed.

'I need to ask you about your brother's personal life. To put it bluntly, his sexual practices.'

Mycroft looked at him as if he was an amoebic life form. 

'My brother is a virgin, Inspector. He has had no sexual relationships at all, to date, with either sex.'

Greg shook his head. 

'I don't mean to pry, but you can't be sure of that, can you? Really? With you being away at Cambridge and all that. Just because he hasn't mentioned it when you've visited or spoken on the phone doesn't mean there isn't anything going on.' 

Mycroft looked down. 

'I haven't been home. And we haven't spoken recently. We... argued before I left. But I know Sherlock. I know my brother. We were very close. I would have known.' 

Greg sighed again. He wondered how Mycroft could be so sure? Maybe in denial, he seemed to be something of a stand-in parent to the kid, after all. 

‘Okay. There is absolutely no easy way to put this, so I'm just going to say it straight.

'Our medical examinations of your brother have revealed that he had anal sex with probably three individuals in the hours immediately prior to his being dumped behind those houses. I just need to establish whether he was in the habit of hooking up...'

He was interrupted by Mycroft's face coming very close to his ear. The expression on that face was truly murderous. 

'I. Know. My. Brother. And 'I suggest, Inspector, that you find the people who have done this to him, before I do. And I would ask you to talk about these things being done TO him, not WITH him. None of this will have been consensual. You will want to find them first, believe me.’

Greg held up a hand. 

'You mustn't take the law into your own hands, Mr Holmes. Sherlock will need you, there for him.' 

Mycroft smiled a cold, dark smile. He was, ostensibly, back in perfect control, the mask impassive and his manner charming and polite once again.

'Of course, Inspector. Just... Do find them quickly, for their sakes, won't you?'

Greg nodded, oddly hypnotised by the cool calm threat this man felt able to issue. He'd seen under the mask. He didn't know this man, but somehow he had no doubt of his willingness to see it through.

He thought they should change the subject right now.

'Just one more question, Mr Holmes, then I'll let you get back to Sherlock. It's something quite delicate. Internally, to be exact in Sherlock’s back passage, we found evidence of sexual intercourse as I mentioned, as well as extensive injuries, but there was also some kind of blue powder. We're still having it analysed. You don't have any thoughts about what that might be?'

Mycroft shook his head, looking devastated. Greg nodded again. 

I'm sorry having to go into that.‘It was a long shot but I had to ask. Thank-you for your help - and I'm sorry that... About, all of this. It must be very upsetting.' 

Mycroft bowed his head slightly, not speaking and allowed Greg to open the door. He exited the room and walked slowly back along the corridor, hating everything and everyone. He felt like a new, contaminated person now that he knew that his brother had been attacked so personally and the reason for Sherlock’s abject and undeserved feelings of shame. 

Sherlock was still asleep when Mycroft slipped back into the room, his brow frowning and twitching every so often, but he was quiet. Mycroft pulled up a chair and laid his head lightly on his brother's chest, one of the few places relatively unscathed. He listened to the sound of Sherlock’s precious heartbeat and watched as the blinking red and green lights of the monitors blurred, as he started to sob softly into the pale blue waffle blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to clarify that in this chapter, Lestrade isn't doubting that Sherlock was raped and then the men tried to kill him, his insinuation to Mycroft is simply that Mycroft didn't know about the coke, and that therefore he may not have known that Sherlock was sexually active and that to get money for drugs he may have agreed to some form of consensual sexual encounter. I don't think I was too clear on that. And, to a great degree, Lestrade has it spot on, of course. This isn't the Mycroft of later years and CCTV and minions. He's blindsided by his moral decision to cut himself off to protect his brother as he saw it at the time.


	14. Powder Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers talk. Greg and Sally turn up and start asking questions. Mycroft aces his father. And Sherlock offers some cryptic clues to his attackers identities....

Sherlock was out cold for most of that morning, giving Mycroft the opportunity to assess his brother’s injuries in more detail. On paper, it had a been chilling but detached experience; the reality was worse, really, a lot worse. Fractures didn't really adequately describe the leg almost entirely in plaster, the only way to give his brother a decent chance of the bones knitting well enough for him to have a good chance of walking again. The bruising on the rest of his body was at its peak of vivid clashing colours, a nauseating rainbow. Another plaster on one arm.

Mycroft couldn't see any of the more intimate injuries of course, but the thought of these grieved him much more than anything else. He felt as if all of this, the drugs, whatever had led Sherlock to these men, was his own fault, his sole responsibility. That if he had only stayed, been less morally straight laced, or at least been kinder and braver in his dealings with Sherlock, that his brother would not be lying here, broken, having faced terrifying fear and pain alone. 

.................

He leaned back on his chair, and close his eyes. He was thinking. Thinking about the injuries found on and in his brother led him back to Greg's question about the powder found in... Inside. His thoughts were shaky, even though he didn't express them out loud. He'd never realised thoughts could do that, wobble like that in your mind. 

'My?'

He heard a cracked whisper and turned toward the bed. Sherlock's eyes were closed, still, but his lips were slightly open and Mycroft knew he hadn't imagined it, that his brother had spoken. 

He sat by the side of the bed and took the pale hand in his own.

'Lockie. I'm here. Tell me what you need?'

Sherlock frowned. Then winced, at the pain of doing even that.

'Stay.' Just a whisper. Mycroft smiled.

'Of course. I'm not leaving you. Not ever again. You must know, that I won't leave you again, Lock. Whatever... Anything. Just ask. It's fine. You'll be fine. I will be here.'

He thought Sherlock tried to smile back at that, but couldn't quite manage it and instead a single large tear rolled down his cheek and plopped onto their joined hands. Mycroft looked down at it, then leaned down and brushed his lips over Sherlock's salt-wet fingers. He knew the mental tears would be harder to erase, but if he could kiss those away too, he was prepared to try. Whatever that took.

...............

Mycroft slept, that night, beside his brother in a second bed pushed up against Sherlock's own.

He woke at five, when the sky was turning from black to paleness, to find his brother quietly crying again, thumb in mouth like when he was tiny, so he set aside protocol and detached the side bars of the structure, then climbed over into Sherlock's bed. He held him, Sherlock as the little spoon, until the whimpers abated and the sound of breathing was even and peaceful. It was the first time for almost a year he had held his brother, had dared to be so close, and just for this moment, it didn't feel sordid, or forbidden, it felt like warm spring sunshine spreading all through him. He couldn't remember anything feeling as good as this. Home. It felt just like coming home.

……………

When Mycroft woke again, it was properly light. Sherlock was still sleeping soundly and so Mycroft took the opportunity to make some phone calls. He called his superiors and politely requested six weeks compassionate leave. He'd already had a lot of that when Sherlock had been sick and the HR manager couldn't resist a slightly pointed remark. Mycroft bit his retort back, knowing he was not influential enough to get away with it, and treated it much more lightly than he felt. But he noted it, all the same. For future reference. And he got the leave agreed, albeit unpaid. 

All of which led onto the next call, rather more tricky. Mycroft knew that he didn't want Sherlock to have to cope with his mother, which meant he needed to find them a flat. And his own allowance, whilst generous, was now, in his father's absence, largely entailed to looking after the assets of the Trust, which he as a beneficiary could use but not dispose of. Sadly the only properties in London were the house his mother occupied plus a slightly run-down flat over a bank branch on the Finchley Road in West Hampstead, which was tenanted. The other assets were scattered around the country, Scottish forestry, half a shopping centre in the Home Counties, a shipping company in Felixstowe and a huge draughty turreted affair of a house in Edinburgh. 

So, he picked up the phone and called his father. It was the middle of the night. A woman answered, as expected. Girlfriend, not staff. She sounded pissed off, but passed the phone over. 

Mycroft had no intention of informing his father of what had befallen Sherlock, if only because he didn't know what he would do if he heard the merest whisper of "pleased" in his father's voice and he didn't entirely believe that he wouldn't hear it. 

So instead, he simply asked his father for an eye-wateringly large sum of money, making up some story about “postgraduate research” and “Cambridge property price booms” and “needing a settled base”. 

His father laughed. Actually laughed at him. Told him that if he wasn't going to come and join his old dad and make something of himself in a place that actually welcomed risk takers and businessmen, then he should live within his existing means. He also said that Mycroft needed to try and ring in the daytime next time, show some respect for a man’s downtime. Then he put down the phone on his elder son.

Mycroft stood, tapping the mobile to his chin. And then he took a laptop from his overnight bag, swiftly looked up a few files and then dialled another U.S. telephone number. This time it was a confidential IRS whistleblower's line. He covered his mouth, spoke quickly and quietly and did not give his name. By the time he came off the phone, he reckoned they had more than enough material to expose his father's under-the-table deals and money laundering. It was gold plated revenge and enough to send him down for a suitably long time. 

That part, unlike holding Sherlock, did make him feel a little grubby and contaminated, but he had little time to ponder it, as his brother was waking, muscles stiff and painful and a haunted look in his eyes that told Mycroft that not all of Sherlock’s sleep had been dreamless and restful.

............

Later that morning, Lestrade turned up again, with Sally Donovan in tow. They wanted to start to question Sherlock today, he explained, about what had happened to him. The medics weren't entirely convinced Sherlock was ready for the ordeal, but Mycroft sided with the police. He was desperate to know anything Sherlock could tell them. The monsters had already had a cruelly long head start.

The police officers stood outside the room with Mycroft and the doctor caring for Sherlock. 

Greg cleared his throat. 

'How much does he know?' 

'About his injuries?' The doctor shook his head. ‘He knows about the external injuries in detail, and is aware that he has some internal injuries but we haven't discussed those as yet. I have raised the subject, but he seems distressed by the prospect and tips into a panic episode. I would advise proceeding with extreme caution, and I insist on being present. The moment I tell you to stop, the discussion stops. Are we agreed?'

Lestrade nodded. He knew the medics were this close to sending him and Sally away altogether and he couldn't afford that to happen if they were to have any chance of seeing the people who did this put away . Mycroft nodded too. 

'Right. Fifteen minutes maximum, and watch for my signal. If I pat my head or stroke my hair, Inspector, you make your excuses and you leave. And whatever happens, stay calm and remember he is still very weak.'

................

Sherlock was pale but alert now. His eyes, still panda-black, were hooded and he looked wary as the small cluster of people entered the room. Mycroft came and sat next to him, warm hand lightly resting on his battered forearms. Lestrade and the doctor sat to the left of the bed, Sally taking up a perch near the door but close enough to reach for the recording equipment if needed. 

Greg introduced himself and Sally, then started with the open questions, with events that were not distressing, ordinary things. How had the day started? Did he have any breakfast? What did he do before he left the house? Where did he decide to go next? Who did he meet? 

Then the harder stuff.

What could he remember about the events? What did he think had happened to him? Was he attacked by the person he met, or someone else? How many people? Did he take the drugs willingly? Did he consent to any of the physical injuries? Did he consent to (deliberately vague) any sexual activity? If so, what? What changed things into what then happened. Could he confirm for the record that none of that was consensual?

Sherlock was relatively calm to begin with, speaking slowly and clearly if incredibly quietly, as he answered the questions as they were put to him. He described contacting and meeting up with his drug dealer, markedly avoiding Mycroft's gaze as he did so. He admitted that he had agreed, because of a lack of money, to offer blowjobs to what Tony had said were friends of his. He heard Mycroft gasp. He looked away at the window. There was a fly terminally trapped between two sliding panes, its frantic buzzing growing more desperate, but then suddenly falling quieter. He looked down.

He could remember following Tony, to a smart building, 1930s, original lobby plasterwork and staircases, but couldn't remember where it was, his head hurt too much. They had walked though. He remembered there were three men, that he was given something to drink, and then he needed to lie down a lot. After that, he knew only that something hurt, badly but in waves. There were noises, and a needle, and then he was colder and his skin was bare. He remembered odd snatches of the next few hours, but wasn't able to offer them much detail, except to say that the grey haired one smelled of Aqua di Parma, the short fatter one smoked Cafe Creme cigarillos and the tall man - then he stopped. 'Drawbridge. Siege.'

'Sherlock, what do you mean, Drawbridge Siege'? Greg asked, leaning forward? 

But Sherlock couldn't say anything else. He seemed lost in thought. He asked for more pain relief, and it was clear the conversation was over. He looked confused and upset.

…………….

Greg was frustrated, having gained little concrete information to pin down individuals or geography. But when he left with Sally, he saw the doctor and Mycroft close to Sherlock and realised that the boy was being told the bare facts of what had happened to him. As he closed the door, the image of the expression on Sherlock's face burned itself into his head. He shivered and looked at Sally. 

'Poor bloody kid. He's very lucky to be alive, but it sure isn't feeling like that for him at the moment. Would you mind if we went to the pub this lunchtime, instead of a Pret takeout? I feel I need at least one pint of beer - and preferably as soon as possible?’

Sally nodded. Tougher in some ways than Greg, she was nonetheless fond of her boss and appreciated his softer side which contrasted with her own displayed persona. She had a softer side too, in truth, but she'd also had it tougher than Greg growing up and her brittle protective shell was thicker. It took a lot to chip through it, and not many had managed it.

'Sure. Just let me get this stuff in the car, make a few calls and send a few emails. Then we can head off.’

.............

After the medics had left, leaving contacts for organisations that Sherlock or Mycroft might want to contact at some point, Mycroft held Sherlock close and rocked him gently through the silent shuddering that seemed to go on for hours. His neck and shoulders were damp with tears.

'I knew something bad had... I didn't know that... I didn't know why it all hurt so much. It still hurts. Mycroft, why… I... I didn't want… I didn't agree... I can't remember...'

'I know, Lock. Don't worry. Inspector Lestrade will need to talk to you some more, but not today. None of this is your fault. It's my fault and Mummy and Father's fault, but not yours. Never yours. 

‘Listen. You don't have to go back to Mummy's. I've managed to pay off the tenant in the flat over the bank in West Hampstead. If you would like, we could move in. Just the two of us. You'd be close enough for your appointments at the hospital and I can make sure that you are safe and secure.'

Sherlock smiled then, for the first time since the attack, albeit through a curtain of tears.

'Would you do that? For me, you would stay? What about Cambridge?'

'I have six weeks complete leave and even after then I can transfer back to London, I imagine, and work from there. I was nearly at the end of my research, anyway, more live projects coming into the schedule.'

'Mm', said Sherlock, slightly drifting off now, having upped his morphine levels. 'What is it that you do at work exactly? You never said.'

'Oh, just routine administration, Lockie. Photocopying... papers, running… errands, meeting… officials. All very dull. Deathly dull. Not worth your time thinking about.' Mycroft smiled kindly and blandly at him. Sherlock had been through enough, no point in involving him in Mycroft’s increasingly secret work, which soon would carry its own risks. 

His brother seemed satisfied with the platitudes. Sherlock just nodded, sleepily. His breathing slowed and softened.

Mycroft looked down and saw his brother nod, almost asleep and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. As he did so, Sherlock's head turned a little towards him and the kiss brushed Sherlock's full lower lip. Mycroft leapt backwards but Sherlock's head just snuggled down into the pillow and it was impossible to tell if it had been an accident or if there was any element of deliberate design.

Mycroft stood there for a moment. Tasted the faint trace of his brother's mouth with his tongue against his own lips.

Then turned and left the room. He had his brother’s injuries to avenge. Which meant that he had some research to do. About some blue powder.


	15. "Ravenna" blue, but the drawbridge is as distant as ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the blue powder is solved, but how much further forward does it take Mycroft and Lestrade?

Mycroft peered over the printout detailing the chemical analysis of the mysterious blue powder. 

Silica, corundum and a basic blue dye. It was all very pedestrian. Which was odd, really. He'd been expecting something… Clever, perhaps? Elegant? 

He looked again at the results. A particularly high percentage of silica. He leaned back now, and ran through a number of possibilities, his hand playing with a number of other chalk items he had procured and which sat on the desk in front of him.

Children's chalks? No. They were too dry and brittle. This material was softer, and didn't chip, but crumbled to fine dust.

Builders chalk, used with a weight and a plumb line string to ‘ping’ straight lines onto hard surfaces? No. That was almost always white, and had a different chemical makeup.

Tailors chalk, used for marking up fabric for patterns? No. That could be blue, but that was very hard and difficult to crumble into the sort of fine powder that had been found inside his brother.

Artists pigments? No. He had some for comparison, and the artists paint was much purer, much more intense colours. 

With a heavy heart, Mycroft picked up the last item on the table and rubbed it with his thumb, letting the dust fall down. He'd suspected, but had wished to be proved wrong. The chemical composition matched, the texture and behaviour matched.

High quality… cue chalk. 

…………

He brought his forearm up to his face, as if to guard against tears which might dare to intrude on his composure. Cue chalk was unlikely to have found its way inside his brother by itself, and the implication of that was not easy to come to terms with, not even for someone as stoical as he..

He knew, though, that he needed to pull himself together, and so, being Mycroft, that is what he now did. He was fixed on his objective, to find these men, preferably before the police and grindingly slow legal procedure got to them. He wanted more for these men than the due legal process was likely to deliver. So, he set aside the rising wave of nausea at what he had discovered and instead he focused. Allowing his emotions would not help Sherlock, wouldn't help anyone. This information told him something, but he needed more. Much more.

Pool, or billiards? Was the chalk introduced to his brother's body prior to the rapes or afterwards? Could the chalk itself give them any more clues? Were there differences between brands? How would that help them enough to track down his prey?

He sank down into the chair as he contemplated the likely scenarios. All of them made him feel sick. He picked up the phone to Lestrade. 

…………….

Greg was in his office at New Scotland Yard, eating the long liberally iced sweet roll commonly and charmingly lewdly known as a "sticky willy". He had to swallow the entire doughy mouthful before answering his mobile. He tried to swallow it all and managed it, being a worldly sort of a man, but it all went down in a lump and he suspected he'd be cracking open the Gaviscon rather than more beer, later on.

'Lestrade'

'Inspector. Mycroft Holmes.' Greg choked a little as a few crumbs tried to go down the wrong way in his throat. 

Mycroft outlined his conclusions on the blue powder. He spoke without obvious emotion, but Greg had seen Mycroft exposed and vulnerable, and didn't buy that for a minute. However it made things more efficient, for now.

As Mycroft detailed his findings, the shock Greg had felt at finding Sherlock was compounded by the new details. Greg thanked Mycroft, but then fell silent at the implications. 

'That's... I'm sorry. Tell him for me, would you? It makes sense though, there were a few tiny green fibres too.'

'Baize?'. Mycroft felt and sounded hollow. He was right about the way the chalk had got to where it was found, then. 

Greg sounded almost embarrassed.

'Yep, looks like it in this context, but I'll get the analysts to confirm it.' 

Mycroft thought on the end of the line. Green baize was used for both pool and billiards, but only sometimes for pool. It was always, always used for billiards. But then, there were a lot more pool tables in London than billiard tables, so did that really help?

Then again, the tiny details of descriptions Sherlock had been able to give suggested smart, wealthy men, not people playing pool in a back room of the Dog and Duck on the Old Kent Road. So perhaps that spoke of billiards, too.

He realised Lestrade was talking. Something about talking to Sherlock again. Mycroft hmm'd about that, not sure when his brother would be up to it, and then asked Lestrade to analyse a number of brands of cue chalks he was going to get sent to the lab. Not all of them had the same composition, some used aluminium oxide, some corundum and though all used silica, it was in varying proportions. It was a long shot, but maybe this was a less common recipe. It might help, a bit. 

Lestrade was sounding a little irritated at this active intervention in the case. But he was a pragmatist and also a little in awe of this young man, who seemed effortlessly superior. 

'Yeah, right , OK, I'll brief them. Was going to do it myself, get the chalks but I'm happy for you to, let us get on with the real work, eh?'

'Indeed, Gregory. Quite correct.'

The rich cool voice at the end of the telephone line sounded a tiny bit amused. Greg thought that Mycroft would be charming to unpick, to see what was beneath the smooth silky façade, but suspected that the man didn't indulge in base affairs. He wondered if he was right. He wondered if he would ever know?

................

Having ordered a good dozen different varieties of blue cue chalk, Mycroft returned to Sherlock's room, and to the dossier from the medical and lab examination of Sherlock and the samples gleaned from him.

Sherlock was dozing, restless and twitchy. Mycroft brought him ice chips and a warm, damp flannel, tending to him gently and without hurry. Once he settled at last, Mycroft sat quietly by the side of his brother’s bed. He was looking for one piece of information specifically to completely confirm his theory about how the cue chalk came to be inside his brother and he found it almost at the end of page 4 of the stark document. 

But more than that, he also needed to understand sequence.

It might not be significant, but he wanted to know if some of the internal injuries were related to the chalk. Some were already known to be caused by the rapes themselves, but Mycroft was looking for odd outliers. He found what he was looking for. A number of roughly round small abrasions, identical size. They matched the areas the blue powder had been found. And they were beneath the forensic evidence of the rapes, underneath the cocktail of semen traces.

It was important, Mycroft felt, because it showed that Sherlock was assaulted with the snooker cue before he was raped, pretty much setting the seal on the aspect of premeditation, and the liberal amount of cue chalk indicated a generous quantity was available, less likely in a pub setting (where finding any at all when you needed some was a more likely issue). 

Added to the expensive details they knew about the suspects and the length of time the assaults would have taken, plus the disposal of the victim, and Mycroft was convinced this was no frenzied attack in the pub function room housing a pool table, but was by contrast a sustained assault by outwardly respectable and well-heeled men, on their own premises. Those premises had to be ones that had large enough rooms to house a billiards table. 

Sherlock was stirring again. Mycroft decided he could do no more for now and so slipped into the bed next to his brother, holding him as much as he dared given his injuries. 

As he fell asleep, his mind turned back to Sherlock's strange comments about the third man. About the drawbridge. What had he meant? Mycroft dropped off still trying to work it out.

...............

Greg had that beer, the iced bun having finally stopped making him feel like a snake that had swallowed a zebra. He couldn't help thinking about the case and found that a pint or two helped him to roll around the facts in his head, get it all straight and filed in his mind without dwelling on it. He supposed it was what therapists these days liked to call mindfulness, acknowledging the troubling stuff and letting it be there and look at it but not be eaten away by it. He could have told them that emergency services and soldiers had been using it for centuries.

His wife had texted to say that the parents’ evening she was involved in was running over time. They both knew it wasn't. He ordered a second pint. He could walk back to the office from here. He wanted to look back at the other cases, the kids they hadn't found alive. And he wanted to get home with her already in bed, so he had an excuse to kip on the sofa instead of joining her. He didn't want to smell another’s cologne on her skin.

Sighing, Greg opened the file. He hated cases like this, ones with kids involved, and avoided them where possible. He loved his own kids to distraction, even if sometimes they drove him round the bend and found it difficult to get his head round the idea of anyone being capable of doing such harm to them. There wasn't much to his moral code, not really, but right at the top of it was “ you don't hurt kids”.

Two hours later he was deep in paperwork, covering the previous cases. Five hours and he was still there. The next thing he remembered, Sally was shaking him awake and pushing a giant vat of coffee into his hands. 

'You look like you need it, boss. And maybe this, too.'

She lobbed a paper bag his way. The green and white stripes told him that nemesis in the form of chocolate iced Krispy Kreme donuts had arrived. He sighed happily.

..............

At the police lab, the bemused technician had received thirteen different brands of cue chalk. Analysis of each didn't take long, since the product was a simple one, the nuances came in the percentage make-up makeup of each ingredient and the choice between the two main abrasive options, plus the fineness of the grinding and quality of any binder used. 

They started with the most common and cheapest compounds and ended with the most expensive. It was their last, most exclusive chalk that gave them a match. None of the others did. They had their chalk brand. They had no idea how it would help, but that wasn't their role. This was their job, and they had done it well.

Lestrade rang Mycroft and told him he had news and would be down in half an hour. Mycroft was relieved to hear it. It hadn't been a good night for Sherlock who seemed, now he wasn't sedated, to be much more fearful of noises, people and anything happening out of his direct line of sight. He took out his iPhone and the earphones he used when jogging around the Park and gave it to his brother, who was soon curled up on the bed, listening to classical music, though Mycroft thought his switching to a Moods playlist was less than wise, sure he could hear the strains of Mozart's Requiem buzzing out. 

................

Greg felt strangely pleased at the prospect of seeing Mycroft Holmes again, though he wouldn't have been able to pin down why. 

‘"Ravenna'. That's the cue chalk. Exact match.’

Mycroft nodded, then steepled his fingers. 

'The most expensive brand.'

'Yeah. Imported from Italy. Very fine, highly resistant to flaking. Intense aqua blue. Comes in a white box, box of six, foam inserts between each piece and each piece is individually cellophane wrapped. Oh and it's cylindrical, to make the cue tip shape, not a cube like most.'

'Price difference between this and standard chalk you might use in a pub?'

Mycroft was interested now. 

'This stuff, £13 for six pieces. That's twelve times more expensive than your bog-standard pub and youth club stuff.' 

'And how much of this is sold in the UK at the moment?' 

Greg grinned, brilliant white teeth lighting up his face,

'That's the thing, Mr Holmes. There isn't any being sold. Hasn't been imported for four years now, something to do with the exchange rates and a fire at the factory in Italy. Unless it's very old stock, which our lab people say they don't think it is, whoever bought this is either involved with the company or they've brought it back from Italy themselves.'

Mycroft smiled a little now. 

'Excellent work, thank you Greg. That's most helpful. Let us speak to Sherlock again and see if he has any more recollection about the three men.'

..............

The positive progress made them feel hopeful. Sadly they had much less success in this endeavour than they had with the scientific work. Sherlock was distressed to even broach the subject of the attack again and the only thing additionally they could get from him was about that third man, the 'drawbridge man'. 

It wasn't much, and it was still confused and cryptic as hell. Sherlock said something about 'Mycroft's book', but try as they might, they couldn't get any more sense out of him than last time, and no more helpful explanation. They didn't know what book, what the hell drawbridges had to do with anything. 

The euphoria about the chalk was replaced by frustration. Without more meaningful clues, Sherlock's attackers might never be caught. That was bad enough, but since they were also suspected of being involved in the other boys' deaths, that meant murderers continuing to walk the streets of London, free to strike again at will.


	16. A home - together - for the Holmes brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is released from hospital. They decamp first to a hotel and then to a flat. They will be alone there, and Sherlock can start to heal. Mycroft will be there.

A few days later, Mycroft felt able to leave Sherlock for odd hours here and there. He generally headed out once the subject of using the toilet was hinted at, because Sherlock made it clear that whilst he was compromised, he could manage, but that his internal injuries presented some challenges to comfortable performance of the function. It was still painful and he felt degraded by that reminder of what the men had done to him. 

The only time Mycroft had been in the vicinity, he and Sherlock both found the whole experience a traumatic reminder of what Sherlock had gone through.

He made use of his brief exits to organise the arrangements for the Finchley Road flat, which took more legwork than he would have liked, but also to go home and check on his mother. In the end, he found that she wasn't there, having checked into a clinic to try to get off the array of tablets she was taking, whether prescribed, recommended by 'friends' or simply found on the Internet and shipped from Christ knows where. Judging by the number of bottles in the ensuite to her room, it would take them some time just to list them, let alone get her weaned off the damn things. Snake oil, some of it, no better.

So he used his time at the Holmes' house, alone, to compile a list of all the leather bound volumes lining the immaculate bookshelves in his room. Sherlock had mentioned 'Mycroft's book.' He needed to know which one, what its significance was to the third man who had raped Sherlock and since his brother couldn't come to the books...

.................

Once he was done, he set the alarm and locked up, then headed off in a black cab to West Hampstead. The flat above the bank was, it had to be said, something of a major comedown after the Holmes spacious, centrally located mansion. It was pleasant red brick but nineteen thirties rather than ornate Victorian or smart Edwardian. Times were tough at its’ birth and that showed in the plain architecture. Unremarked by passers-by or customers using the large double doors on the right of the building to access the banking hall or the lobby cash points, the single plain wood panelled door on the left gave straight onto a flight of stone built, metal-tipped stairs. Once, this accommodation would have been the bank manager's own home, living 'above the shop’, in the days before electronic alarms enabled security to operate remotely. The safe design was the only thing that hadn't changed a lot in banking. Everything else was unrecognisable. Not always in a good way. 

At the top of the staircase was a second front door, marking the entrance to the flat itself. The place was basic and bare, and smelt only of long-term rental neglect and dust. There were dark ghostly shadows on the worn out carpet, where the tenants’ furniture had stood for too long in the sunlight barely filtered by the thin, cheap curtains. 

A small kitchen and cloakroom, plus a large living room on this first floor, with three bedrooms upstairs, the dimensions of the two outer flanking rooms restricted a little by the intrusion of the hipped roof design. 

The flat was dry, but poorly insulated and chilly. You would hear the traffic noise outside all night, Mycroft predicted, as well as that from the 24 hour grocers selling exotic fruit and veg as well as newspapers. The nearby traffic lights added to the din, the squeal of lorry brakes and the periodic loud beeping of the pedestrian crossing phase providing the soprano line to the gritty bass symphony of noise and traffic fumes. The bedroom floor was better though, the windows were double glazed here, unlike downstairs, and it was further away from the din. You could see the stars from the largest bedroom. Mycroft decided that this would be his own. Their own. 

............

There were positives too, about this flat, he mused. On the plus side, it was practically opposite the tube station served by two lines and there was a Waitrose opposite ( which was never a bad thing in the eyes of Londoners of a certain income level). And you could be in the centre of town in fifteen minutes or less via the tube, or get to the airports via a five minute walk up the road to the high-speed cross-London overland service. Still, it definitely was not Mycroft's natural milieu, this bourgeois, average, pedestrian dwelling and his nose wrinkled more than a little as he walked around the flat. “Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his palatial dwelling for this”, he concluded, wryly running his fingers through the thick dust on the incongruous dado rail in the hall. And yet, he was excited. Excited by the prospect of bringing Sherlock home, helping him heal, helping him understand that he, Mycroft would deny him nothing. Nothing. Not again. Never again.

Then the doorbell rang, right on time. A host of cleaners, decorators and window fitters had arrived en-masse. Parking was non-existent, with the alarming double red lines meaning no parking at all, ever, not even if… , so all deliveries had to be timed exactly, one reason for him being here to let them in and not relying on anyone else. 

He needed this flat to feel like home for Sherlock. 

Calmly and efficiently, he started directing the human traffic around the property. 

...........

The weeks passed frustratingly slowly, as Sherlock's injuries healed, the physical ones at least. He remained jumpy and although he was, in theory, finally eating solid food, he was as fussy and sparing as ever with quantity and frequency. 

When he was small, Mycroft had wondered if there was something wrong with his insides, or if he had recurrent mouth ulcers, or some other medical problem. It was only later that he concluded that food simply didn't interest his brother. That had taken quite a bit of processing, because Mycroft couldn't imagine not being really into gastronomy. It seemed such a waste. 

Now, he didn't know if it was just a return to old habits or a reflection of internal injuries yet to heal fully. He didn't feel he could ask.

..............

That night he came back from the Hampstead flat, Mycroft had shown Sherlock the inventory of books he had drawn up, but Sherlock hadn't shown the same urgency as his brother and declined to offer more information, or even to look through the list. 

The case stalled as Sherlock's hair grew long and Mycroft worked from the London office, or Sherlock's hospital room. 

………………….

At last, Sherlock was allowed to leave hospital. Mycroft realised that the Finchley Road flat wouldn't work straight away… there was no lift. So rather than decamp to the Holmes family home, (which also lacked a lift but with the added hazard of boasting a mother guaranteed to drive them both nuts), Mycroft booked them into a comfortable mid-range hotel in Blackfriars. Sherlock had a taste for sushi and fine Chinese cuisine and this place had both within a few yards, plus it was centrally located and not far from New Scotland Yard.

There were two entrances to the hotel. One, facing onto on the main road, was fronted by marble steps and a liveried doorman. The other was at the rear of the building, much less smart but making use of the gradient of the land to offer a wheelchair accessible entrance to the hotel. So it was this low-key entrance they used, Mycroft wheeling the lightweight chair. A proper, electric version awaited them in their suite, which would give Sherlock more independence until his fragile legs were strong enough for him to walk. 

.............

The suite was on the top floor and served by a key operated floor control on the lift. No one except them and hotel staff could reach it, unless they told the reception that they authorised a particular visitor. 

The hotel door was heavy and cumbersome to open; in the end the lobby boy propped it open and pulled Sherlock's wheelchair in through the corridor. It opened out, then, though, into a huge bright and sunny bedroom. Leading off was a dressing room and a vast bathroom. A kitchenette completed the suite. Mycroft knew that weeks here would cost thousands, but what else was his bloody trust fund for? 

He put the brake on the wheelchair and tipped the boy, who left them alone to return to his perch by the cloakroom in the lobby. Mycroft was alone for the first time with his brother since he was attacked. The quiet was deafening, only the faint hum of the traffic and the quiet whirr of the aircon making it not completely silent and still. 

He looked at Sherlock's face, and saw complete exhaustion etched there, possibly with a top note of pain.

'You should rest now. Let me help you.'

Sherlock said nothing, but just nodded, allowing himself to be helped up from the chair and supported to the bathroom. He couldn't yet stand up unaided without leaning against something, but told Mycroft he didn't want to pee sitting down. Mycroft kept supporting him while Sherlock pissed, and then helped him to sit. It was strange, but not as strange as Mycroft feared. He knew that had his brother's injuries been more severe, spinal, he could have been involved in much more intimate personal care than this. 

'Call me when you are done. What do you want to do about showering, you can't, I imagine with the casts? Do you need me to wash you?'

Sherlock looked down, embarrassed now despite his carefree behaviour all those months back. 

'Could you? I feel grimy and smell altogether too much of hospital. They did it there, sometimes, but it was a bit hurried and not very dignified. With the… injuries.'

Mycroft hummed in agreement. 

'Just call out when you are ready. I will go and get the flannels ready. I had some of your hypoallergenic liquid soap brought from home and there's more coming here in a few days.'

While Sherlock slowly and very carefully took a shit, Mycroft gave him privacy and got the wash cloths ready. He also unpacked some underwear, plain black soft boxer shorts. Then he took out some pyjamas. It had taken a few phone calls to sort these out. Three pairs of his brother's favourite bee pyjamas, new but specially prewashed by the hotel laundry to make sure there was no new clothes scratchiness. He held them up to his face. They just smelled of clean now. Soon they would smell of his brother, the brother he'd almost lost. The thought made his heart leap.

His reverie was interrupted by Sherlock's call. He went in and found Sherlock now sitting on the demurely closed loo seat, clad only in a small towel around his waist.

'Right, ‘Lock. Let's get you scrubbed clean, shall we?' 

............

Sherlock moved himself to a wicker chair in the far corner of the bathroom, next to the washbasin. His skin was dry and sore in places. The bruising had faded mostly now, but there were livid healing wounds just about everywhere. It made Mycroft want to weep.

Sherlock didn't see his brother's expression, carefully masked as it was. He felt better for having been to the loo in privacy (for the main event anyway), though, so rested his head back against the upholstered bolster cushion tied to the top of the chair, and allowed himself to be gently wiped and patted, smoothed and examined, starting with his head and working down. Mycroft was incredibly gentle, so much so that Sherlock thought he had missed his calling in life. It didn't occur to him that this was for him and only him. After all, Mycroft had left, hadn't called, visited, hadn't written even hardly. Just vanished to Cambridge, to dinners and libraries and black tie and May Morning after the ball. 

………….

Mycroft couldn't wash Sherlock's legs, still encased in plaster, though he wished fervently that he could. So it wasn't too long before the inevitable issue came up. 

'Lock, do you want me to...'  
A flannel was waved vaguely in the direction of Sherlock's abdomen and below.  
'It's fine if...'  
'I don't mind if...'

They interrupted each other. Sherlock looked up at his brother.  
'It's all fine, Mycroft. Just be very gentle and when I can't see you, move slowly from one area to the next, keeping contact with my skin. If I grab your wrist or call out, stop. If I freak out, you have permission to take me down.' 

Mycroft looked at him beseechingly.

'Sherlock, I'm sorry. So sorry. About all this, this, it shouldn't have happened. I should have been there, should have stayed at home.'

'Don't, Myc', Sherlock whispered, 'I can't stand it if you are sad too. It's done, it's too late to regret, it wasn't your fault, it was the men.'

Mycroft nodded and took a deep breath. 

'Okay, here we go. At least I know where you are ticklish.' 

.........

It felt utterly strange to be sitting in a hotel room, cleaning his brother's penis with warm water and then his arse, and yet while Mycroft felt an inevitable stirring of arousal in his gut and knew he was half hard, it was somehow at the same time not at all about sex. It was more ritualistic, like a ceremony binding the two of them together, through this intimate caregiving.

Sherlock didn't get hard at all. He was bowstring tense all through his body, a coiled spring of sublimated terror. Holding it together while someone, even Mycroft, touched him where the men had been, was, he concluded, one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he could see Mycroft’s distress and guilt and he couldn't bear to compound it by showing his true state. By the time Mycroft smiled at him and cleared away the ointments and cotton pads, dressings and water bath, he was sweating.

He was glad to see the new PJs, even if they had to cut open the legs of one pair to get them over his cast and felt much better once he was propped up in bed with tea and biscuits, Mycroft by his side and an obscure TV documentary on Inuit social traditions and snowshoe making wittering on companionably. 

Slowly, his body began to relax, to feel safe and stand down its guard.

That night, they slept together, peaceful and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I own up, I lived in this flat for a while. It wasn't cold tho, but only because the fellow graduate trainees I lived with used to leave the heating on all day (yes it was always the guys). Further example of unacceptable behaviour by bankers...
> 
> I should say that the flat was later sold by the bank (maybe the heating bills dented global profits) and it's now just a private residence, so no flour bombing please! The Waitrose was jolly useful, especially for a creature of habit. In the nine months I lived there I think I ate their lemon chicken at least four times a week...
> 
> This is a tiny toe dipped in the world of case fics, only a toe because DIFFICULT to do. So I'm just using Sherlock's own attack as the source of a few mysteries. However, solving the mystery using the clues is not always enough to get the right result, and I will obliquely draw on some alleged real life events to demonstrate why...


	17. Lestrade reviews the other victims' files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time nears to move from the hotel to the new flat. Lestrade meanwhile, examines the cases of the other three suspected victims of Sherlock's attackers. It makes chilling reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You lucky blighters! This chapter is going up EARLY because I am off to a lovely wedding of two lovely guys, one of whom OH works with, so..here is the chapter.
> 
> Hope you like and just to reiterate, hang in there, the SMUT WILL COME...:-)))

They stayed on at the hotel for almost a month. Life settled into a curiously comfortable routine, with Sherlock pottering around, first in the wheelchair and towards the end of their stay, on crutches, once his arm was out of plaster. They got used to the room service menu (Jambalaya and the pricier steaks good, curry and fish and chips decidedly bad) and the pillow “firmness rating” they each favoured. They did not touch each other beyond chaste embraces.

Sherlock was, of course, restless and bored, and hated the medical checkups that he required for his various injuries, whiling away the hours while Mycroft was at work by wheeling himself around the streets in his electric wheelchair at breakneck speed, hurtling round blind bends and exploring every last nook and cranny of the backstreets. 

He got to know the porters at Smithfield, who grew accustomed to the weird-looking youth in the wheelchair turning up in a spray of displaced gravel then intently watching the massive loads of meat carcasses being unloaded in the gloom of the early hours of the morning. He wheeled himself along the river path from Blackfriars to Monument, up to Fleet Street and then spent his afternoons in the public galleries of the courts of the Old Bailey, watching the criminal trials. So he passed the long, lonely days without his brother.

He texted Mycroft, often, with questions about the tempering of glass, or the calibre of a bullet, or average speed of a bullet from a specific type of firearm. Whilst these were a distraction from his intense, brain-hurting work, Mycroft didn't mind. Just to have Sherlock animated enough to send these messages and alive to do so, was something that filled him with happiness and he looked forward to the ping of his mobile. He even found himself checking the screen during meetings.

..............

At last, though, the cast was finally off his leg and Sherlock could manage with crutches. Despite Mycroft's suggestion that they wait until he could walk unaided, Sherlock was insistent that they check out and preferably move to the flat in Hampstead. 

Mycroft couldn't help but fail to suppress the slight shiver down his spine at the idea of the two of them sharing a flat, somewhere private, somewhere safe. 

...........

Later that night, Greg was tired enough to be yawning, but the files spread out in front of him and the windows on his screen with newspaper articles and video clips of weeping relatives making public appeals, served to make such behaviour out of the question. 

Three cases. Three unsolved cases. Three dead, dismembered boys.

***

The first had been Levi Johnson from Streatham, South London. Levi was intelligent, very quick and charming too, but not fond of school, by all accounts his attendance record was abysmal. According to his friends he spent most of his time hanging around the ice rink, or MacDonald's, during the day and skateboarding around the tube station car park in the evening under the floodlighting. Levi was a loveable rogue. He had several convictions for petty theft. He was of mixed Jamaican and English heritage, tall, handsome and very popular with girls.

The statement from the manager of the boot hire kiosk at the ice rink, said that Levi had started trying to nick hired boots when the customers took them off to grab coffees at the café, or drinks from the vending machines. Clients were meant to keep the skates on, with the plastic guards applied to protect the floor, but the youngsters didn't think they looked cool, clumping around like seals out of the water. So Levi had it easy, scooping up the discarded boots. He would hand them in at the kiosk, or get smaller kids to do it, and claim the hefty deposit charged on every pair. The management, predictably, got wise to his scam pretty quickly when customer complaints started filtering in and banned him. 

The day he'd disappeared, just over two years ago, aged fifteen, he'd sneaked in again, about six pm and was trying a new trick, of breaking into lockers. One of the security guys had spotted him, he had the bad luck to be distinctive-looking - and slung him out. He saw Levi shout obscenities and then turn and head towards the road, hood up, jeans low slung. CCTV caught him halfway along the road towards MacDonald's. Then he turned the corner onto Church Road - and that was it. No one ever saw him alive again. And there was no trace of him at all, until three months later, when most of his body parts turned up, scattered like so much discarded rubbish on a waste transfer site in Grays, Essex. 

It was a desolate and wretched place for anyone's story to end. No suspects were identified. The case went cold. The public forgot about Levi’s grinning, handsome face. They moved on.

***

Second to die was Marcus Wheeler. He was a different proposition from Levi. Marcus was studious, geeky, with a good school attendance record and even better grades. He played cricket with his dad on Sunday's in their village near Kings Langley, Hertfordshire. Marcus was fourteen, and played the trumpet in a local youth orchestra. He had the florid complexion of a keen brass player and he was sandy haired and tall. He was pleasant looking rather than a magnet for attention. Solid, dependable, honest and diligent. You could imagine him forming the heart of a regiment, sturdy as the oak, and brave too. Would that Marcus had the chance to fulfil whatever his future would have been.

Marcus left to walk to orchestra practice at a local school on a perfectly ordinary Saturday morning nine months ago. It was sunny, and he was humming a piece he was practising for his Grade VII exam, some six weeks away.

Somewhere in that journey, something happened to Marcus. His trumpet case, the prized instrument and music still within, was found in the nearby canal. At first it was thought he must be in there too, but the police frogmen dragged a long section and found nothing more. 

His body parts turned up in a landfill site in Erith, Kent, some four months later. His father hung himself three weeks later. Marcus had been their late, only and much wanted child. Without his son, Neil Wheeler felt there was no point in continuing.

***

The last known case was Patrick (Paddy) Flynn. He was a showman's son, helping his father Patrick senior set up the fairground rides in large featureless municipal parks and show-grounds around the outer London boroughs. In winter, they parked the huge brightly painted wagons on a hard standing beside the M25 near Slough, an official showman's site. In summer, Paddy rarely went to school or attended the lessons the council provided via a mobile tutor who travelled around the various traveller and gypsy sites. 

Paddy had two passions, the fairground and horses. When not working, the fifteen year old would head off with his best mate Conor to any nearby race meeting. Too tall and heavy to be a jockey and too mouthy to get a job around the track, Paddy just used to hang around the weighing room doors to chat to the jockeys. Like the fair, racing was its own world, full of secret jargon and tradition, but with the added attraction of the horses. 

Six months ago, on one of their regular jaunts, Conor lost sight of Paddy, his friend’s dark blue eyes looking back and then vanishing through the crowd, hoping for a chance of an autograph from one of the top riders. Conor didn't bother following, Paddy could look after himself and Conor had persuaded a drunk guy to get him a drink from the bar. Conor couldn't go himself, he was well underage and small with it and even fake ID wouldn't convince anyone.

Paddy didn't come back, and eventually the tipsy Conor went home, cursing his friend for taking off without him. But Paddy never came home. His remains were found scattered across the Grays tip, just like Levi, five weeks later.

...................

Lestrade could see why the local forces had struggled with these cases. Initially, despite there not being positive evidence for it, the assumption had been that young lads who went missing tended to have gone of their own accord, and that they could look after themselves. Especially when two of the three were rarely at school anyway. 

It was only Marcus Wheeler who had really got the full works in terms of an investigation, Lestrade concluded, reading through the files and noting the contrast between the quality and quantity of investigation. All victims are equal, but some are more equal than others, was the message the files contained. Greg shook his head, though he knew that Marcus was a year younger too and perhaps that encouraged attention. But the ethnicity of the other two probably meant assumptions too. Not that it had made any difference, as Marcus wasn't traced either. No one saw Marcus disappear. The trail went cold. And that was that, until his body parts were found, just like the others. 

He decided to send the papers to Mycroft, unofficially. He didn't know what the man would be able to glean from them, but he wasn't getting anywhere, and if Mycroft might one day be able to share them with Sherlock, perhaps there would be a breakthrough. It was a slimmer chance as each week went by, but it was all Greg had got. 

.............

The subject of his hope, was presently sitting scowling on a sofa in the middle of a room over a bank branch which was now very much furnished. The subject of his fraternal displeasure was ignoring his sulk and continuing to unwrap small items of decorative value. It was all very much Mycroft's taste, nothing of this place told of Sherlock's presence. 

Mycroft paused in his precise placement of the favoured trinkets. He wasn't sure what was up with Sherlock but neither was he going to indulge his little brother's moods if he wasn't prepared to share what was wrong. 

He carried on with his unpacking. Sherlock carried on huffing and grumbling. Maybe his leg hurt, thought Mycroft. 

...........

The unpacking was finished. Now the atmosphere changed. Before, there had been things to do and tasks to accomplish. Before, it was all about Sherlock's injuries and Mycroft's care for him, to protect him and hold him. 

Now they were alone, properly alone, in a proper flat, with proper furniture. And neither of them, if they were honest, knew quite how to behave with one another. The Sherlock that Mycroft had abandoned when he fled to Cambridge was a boy, untamed and headstrong. The Sherlock that was wandering the flat now, dressed in a raggy old inside-out T-shirt and stripy PJ bottoms was something entirely different. Still innocent, still untamed, but also a product of suffering and sorrow. Mycroft knew only one truth now : that in all things, he needed Sherlock to tell him or show him what he needed. Whatever it was, Mycroft would not refuse him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This element of the story is partly a reflection of a series of terrible rapes and murders of young boys that took place in South and East London in the late 1980s. It touched me because one of the boys lived close to where I went to my (very nice ) school, and to find out years later that an organised gang of violent paedophiles was operating from that quiet village horrified me. 
> 
> The full list of victims may never be confirmed but three at least were certain.
> 
> So this story is something of a tribute to Jason Swift (14), Barry Lewis (6) and Mark Tildesley (7), as well as to the up to 17 other possible victims police believe they gang may have abducted and murdered . May they all see justice one day.


	18. Gentle steps into the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft pass the point of no return in their relationship. Mycroft is caring and gentle. But Lestrade's visit directs attention onto the hunt for Sherlock's attackers.

The bedroom was dark, blackout curtains blocking out the orange sodium haze of the never-sleeping arterial road outside. A small fan created a pleasant breeze; it wasn't really the location for throwing the windows open. Despite these comforts, Mycroft was dozing, at best, when the door opened and his brother finally seemed to have agreed to come to bed. 

The skinny shape burrowed into the bedclothes and cold (so cold!) toes touched Mycroft's warm limbs. The bedclothes turned into a heap as the creature tunnelled further.

 

Usually, Sherlock would snuggle up to Mycroft's side and remain there for much of the night. And it hadn’t escaped Mycroft’s notice that despite his horrific experience, Sherlock still had the normal physiological reactions of a teenage boy. Their bodies close, the reaction from that and from a bladder that gradually filled and the result was inevitable, almost every night. They didn’t speak of it, Mycroft tried his best to ignore it, not quite sure how to proceed but knowing that he had to follow Sherlock’s lead. Sherlock seemed oblivious, far more so than before the attack, and so Mycroft simply changed the sheets each morning the next morning without comment or condemnation. The laundry service handled the rest.

Tonight, however, Sherlock didn't curl up chastely, but instead lay alongside Mycroft, lying on his back too. Sherlock was awake and staring at the ceiling, occasionally shooting a glance across to his brother. Mycroft concluded that his brother was considering saying something, but hadn't quite come to terms with his decision. He knew how Sherlock's mind would torture him and also that the urge to speak would not recede, once it appeared. His brother required distraction, right now, to allow his subconscious to finish thinking through the decision.

He reached out, knowing he was likely to encounter his brother in at least a half-hard state. The frequency and persistence of Sherlock's nocturnal erections would be almost comical, were it not such a matter of unspoken reverence and fascination.

So Mycroft’s fingers crept to the side, encountering smooth cotton Jersey pants, and then, sure enough, there... He encountered precious, swollen flesh, more than half hard. He heard the small surprised intake of breath, almost a hiss. He turned off the fan using the remote control. He wanted to hear. He wanted Sherlock to hear, too. 

‘Sherlock. Tell me what you want.’

He stroked softly. Sherlock whimpered and started to tremble. But Mycroft needed him to simply feel, not join in. This was a gift. 

‘Tell me, Sherlock.  
Sherlock shuddered. Then he whispered. 

‘I want… I need… You. Mycroft please, I need you.’

Mycroft nodded. His face was grave and gentle, full of love and compassion. He put a finger to Sherlock's lips. 

'Shhhh. Lock. That's ok. Be still. Be quiet. Let me, please.'

He saw the whites of Sherlock's eyes look to him, anxious for a moment and Mycroft realised the last time Sherlock had to be still and take sexual attention, it had been horrifying. But that was why he wanted to do this. He couldn't remove that, it was graffiti on his brother that couldn't be removed. All he could do was try to overwrite it, to make his tags brighter and bolder and made in places those men could never reach. 

He lowered his mouth to his brother's face and kissed his lips, then his neck, softly. Sherlock felt Mycroft smiling into his neck. 

Sherlock's rigid tenseness dissipated and he relaxed back into the sheets. He made a small noise. It was almost a squeak. His hands fell to his sides. 

Mycroft was gentle, all the time. His movements, slicking, holding, brushing, sliding, circling, all of them were kind and patient, even when Sherlock began to buck his hips and Mycroft's finger tips could feel his balls draw up in sure and certain expectation, promise, intent.. 

Sherlock's climax, when it came, was something Mycroft thought more beautiful than he could have imagined. His brother stiffened his whole body under Mycroft's hands and then dug in silently with his nails as he came, decorating his perfect paleness with even paler pools. Mycroft only then took his hand to his own aching penis and a few moments later, the fluids were joined on the surface of both their skins when he came with a cry. Then,he encircled Sherlock fully with his arms and embraced him with relief, longing and a lingering guilt of those who know they are damned now but cannot bring themselves to regret a moment of any of it. 

...........

Neither of the Holmes brothers awoke until well past nine, to the sound of the doorbell from way down at street level. They were both still marked by their sins, crusty patches of semen dotted across their skin. 

Mycroft answered the video intercom. Lestrade. Here, and early too. He told the detective to wait for a couple of minutes and pulled a drowsy Sherlock into the bathroom, scrubbing them both quickly with a flannel and then hurriedly dressing. As he oozed down the stairs to answer the door, he heard the sound of the shower going on, and smiled to himself.

...............

If Greg thought it unusual that Mycroft appeared to be somewhat less immaculately turned out than usual, he made no mention of it, although he did glance up the stairs once or twice when the pipes squeaked. 

'Sherlock', Mycroft said by way of a complete explanation. 

'Ah. Yeah. Right.’ Lestrade wasn't really listening. Instead, he placed the three thick Manila files in front of Mycroft. 

'That's everything? About all three boys?' 

'That's it. I shouldn't hand it over to you, we both know that. But I don't see how we can get any further without a breakthrough, the cases are so bloody cold.'

Mycroft reached out his hand to take the files, but was stopped as Greg leaned forward and put his hand on top of the box files as if to reclaim possession. 

'You've only got 48 hours with this little lot, I can't risk longer than that. And I need something in return, Mycroft. I know you don't want to push Sherlock and I completely understand why from a mental health perspective, but...'

Mycroft frowned.

'You want me to press him about the drawbridge. The book.'

He'd expected this at some point, but that didn't make him less worried.

'Greg, I will do what I can. But you need to realise that pushing him to recall and relive experiences which he was only partly aware of at the time, might bring back those events much more vividly than they are successfully buried right now. And that would be horrific for him. I could lose him altogether, Greg, and then those men would have won, and, understand me very well here, I will never let that happen.'

Greg nodded. 

'I know. That's why I've held off so far. I will leave timescales up to you, of course. I just need to know that it's something that is on the table, that will be addressed, whether it's now or sometime later when Sherlock is in a better place.' 

'Speaking of which...', murmured Mycroft, as Sherlock swished into the room, if one can be said to swish whilst limping and apparently wearing nothing except for Mycroft's dressing gown, unmistakable with its large 'MH' in curling script on the lapel. 

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. Then found himself unable to do anything except watch as a few droplets of water dropped from his brother's slick wet curls, running down his long graceful neck. 

Greg narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked between the brothers. 

'Sherlock. Good to see you. You're looking well. Much more mobile, too.'

Sherlock grimaced and tapped his right leg. 

'Mmmm. A long way to go but at least I can't be held in the tower like Rapunzel any longer.' He threw Mycroft a look that said “I may be fragile but I am not powerless over you”.

'Don't be absurd, Sherlock.'

It came out sharper than Mycroft had meant. But Sherlock seemed to take the rebuke, murmuring an apology and settling himself down in an armchair.

'Thank you, Greg', Mycroft said by way of conclusion to their discussions.

'Yes, thank you Gavin for the files, though I'm not sure that will be quite long enough to do them justice.'

Mycroft shook his head at Greg. Sherlock had clearly heard much of the later part of their discussions. Did he know Greg's price for this information. That Mycroft had to find a way to press him about his attackers? 

Mycroft didn't know, but for now he was relieved to wave Greg off and return to the Holmes nest, where they could be alone, safe and together.


	19. The Castle in Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock manages to reveal what the 'drawbridge' reference meant, and Mycroft learns the name of this third assailant. Lestrade calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice a bit of a hint of Mystrade frisson going on, if you did, you would be right. But this isn't a Mystrade fic, it's a Holmescest one, so fear not. Not that they don't find each other attractive...

There was little point trying to ignore the case files, still less to pretend that they hadn't come with a price. As a result, Mycroft spent the morning examining the papers, passing them over to Sherlock when he was done with each section. Sherlock, for his part, read the files much slower and seemed to be taking breaks very often, sometimes as frequently as every few minutes. They both knew the reasons for that. Sherlock might be richer, brighter and more indulged than any of the three boys featured in this grisly set of files, but really, he was no different than them to his attackers, and he should be dead like them, his history and fate consigned to so much fading typescript. 

Mycroft made frequent cups of tea and, just once, laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but his brother flinched when he did it, having not anticipated the touch. All of the intimacy and closeness of last night had evaporated with the contamination of recollection of events Sherlock could only half remember.

Mycroft decided that in this context, he didn't have much to lose. After lunch, consisting of ham and cheese omelette for himself, and a couple of half chewed then discarded apples for Sherlock (now not the time to press him on his inadequate nutrition), he placed a sheet of paper in front of his brother. 

'It's time, Sherlock. I need to know. Greg needs to know. Before another boy dies. You need to give us more. About the drawbridge.'

Sherlock didn't move for what seemed like an age. Mycroft wasn't sure if he was going to blow into a rage, stay silent or simply refuse. 

At last, he picked up the piece of paper. On it were a list of all the titles and authors in Mycroft's library. 

Sherlock ran his finger down the columns. 

He stopped at the third column, about halfway down. His finger shaking and quickly withdrawn. Mycroft leaned in to see what item he had indicated. 

AUTHOR   
Ewan Pritchard 

TITLE  
Directory of Noble Members of the House of Lords of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.  
57th Edition

Mycroft sighed, then murmured his understanding. 

'Drawbridge...castles...portcullis part of the gate and drawbridge, and portcullis the symbol of the two Houses of Parliament.'

'Obviously', Sherlock whispered. 

................

Now Mycroft moved to Sherlock's side and the closeness seemed to return, all in a moment. 

'Sherlock, can you tell me. Did you know the person was a Lord because you saw some identifying item, like headed paper or an entry pass or car park sticker. Or did you recognise the person themselves. Did you know them before the attack? Had you met them?'

Mycroft embraced Sherlock and buried his face in his shoulder. If Sherlock knew the man, it could only be through Mycroft's occasional dinner parties at the Holmes residence. That would mean that Mycroft had introduced them. It might not have any connection to the subsequent attack, but the idea still made his stomach turn. 

He couldn't help but be relieved when Sherlock raised and then shook his head. 

'Used to read the book, when I'd run out of the rest because I'd read them all and you were late at work and Father was arguing with Mummy or Mummy was being weird. I sort of... memorised everyone in it.'

Mycroft looked him in the eye now. The haunted, hunted look in Sherlock's eyes made him want to weep. 

He proceeded in a gentle, quiet tone.

'Do you know which one your attacker is? Can you show me the page?'

Sherlock swallowed hard. Then he nodded and as if by magic, as he placed the heavy book down in front of them, it fell open at page 211

Page 211 contained only the entry for

Lord Anthony Cartmere of Tilton in the County of Middlesex. 

There followed a summary biography of the Lord's background (Rugby School, Oriel College, Oxford, Harvard. Age: 59. Married, no children. Separated from wife Eleanor. Ennobled for services to education and charity (there followed a long list of his past and current roles, which included school governorships, university appointments, overseas children's charity trusteeships).

There was a photograph, but Sherlock's hand covered it up. Mycroft saw that his fingers were bloodless and white, so hard was he gripping the object. Mycroft also noticed that his brother's breathing was harsher now, like he was sucking it in but not finding enough to fill his lungs. 

'Sherlock.'

He got no response. 

Mycroft realised that his brother was on the verge of a panic attack, potentially accompanied by flashbacks of what this... Person... had done to him. 

He brought himself to face Sherlock, so that there could be no doubt who was touching him. Then Mycroft slowly unfurled his brother's fingers from the book, afterwards placing it closed onto the desk and flipping Lestrade's files closed at the same time. 

He embraced Sherlock, who by now looked grey and whose eyes lacked focus and slowly and gently brought them both down to the floor, ending up propped against the side of the walnut desk. 

...........

Mycroft wasn't sure how much later it was when Sherlock's heart rate began to resemble something like a normal pace, but it was almost an hour when he checked his watch. 

Sherlock seemed drowsy and miserable and Mycroft kissed his head and stroked his hair. He was pretty confident neither of those things was something the men had done to his brother and hated that he might always have to assess that when they were close.

Later, Mycroft put Sherlock to bed with a hot chocolate drink laced with some sleeping tablets. Mycroft had asked Sherlock whether he wanted them and the look of gratitude on his brother's face overcame any misgivings. 

Back in the living room, Mycroft rang Greg and asked him to come over.

Greg sounded intrigued at the late invitation, but as though he didn't dare to be hopeful. When he turned up, Mycroft opened the door before Greg could ring the bell.

............

They sat in the study, a contrast in colouring, class and almost everything else. Mycroft's long slim legs were crossed, his features aquiline and sharp, his tailoring immaculate if a little rumpled by the events of this evening. Greg, by contrast, was a man who looked good in almost anything he wore, but rarely managed to carry it off without looking at least a bit scruffy. This was partly due to his ingrained Met ways: the sleeves rolled up, the tie loosened if worn at all, the hair cut ultra short like the guys he was arresting most of the time. He was a man who could carry off a gold chain and an ambitious tattoo and a piercing in his prick and be admired for all three. Mycroft, by contrast, was a man whose idea of casual dress was wearing a velvet smoking jacket, instead of black tie to a dinner and who ate pickled onions, when he had to eat them at all, with a knife and fork. 

But they were both drinking fine Scotch now, and they both loved Sherlock, though with different kinds of love. And they both wanted and needed to get the men who had done the things they had to Sherlock and put them in jail for a very long time. At least, Greg did. Mycroft was less "rigid" about his options for the men.

................

Mycroft briefed Greg with impressive clarity and when he had finished, Greg looked both triumphant and somehow strangely nervous.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

'Do spill the beans, Greg. What ails thee, knight-at-arms?' 

Greg fiddled with his glass, and shrugged. 

'It's just... This guy, if this is him, he's got to be well-connected, yeah? Fingers in pies, friends in high places. It just makes me nervous. And we still need the other two.'

Mycroft nodded. 

'Don't worry about the other two. If we nail this one, he will, to use your charming police-speak, squeal like a piglet on his way to market. But yes, we will need to be able to make the case cast iron.'

'Because he'll have the best lawyers and might get off otherwise?'

'That, yes. And that would destroy Sherlock. But mainly because, if that happens, if he walks free, Gregory, he will not make it more than a hundred feet from the court buildings. I can give you my personal word on that.'

Greg swallowed uncomfortably. 

'Mycroft, look, I can't sit here with you making statements like that, I have to report stuff like that.'

'What statements, Gregory? Have another drink. The night is yet young.' 

..............

By the time Greg left, they were both quite drunk. Greg hugged Mycroft, which felt strange to them both. Mycroft thought he felt Greg's hand softly stroke across is back, just lightly, before he made his cheery goodbyes. But he could have been imagining it. There was the drink after all to consider.


	20. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes clear what he wants from Mycroft. And Cartmere is as slippery as ever.

The next couple of days were spent in a tense, holding one’s breath, sort of atmosphere. Greg had the information he needed, or at least all there was to be had, so Mycroft calmly waited for the news that he'd longed for, that Lord Tilton (the official title of Anthony Cartmere) had been arrested, that Cartmere had narked like the pathetic coward he no doubt was and told Greg the names of his two accomplices and that the cases of three murders and Sherlock's attack had been concluded and the files passed to the Crown Prosecution Service.

 

Instead, everything went very, very quiet.

 

...........

 

Mycroft was becoming incredibly agitated which was highly unusual but hardly surprising. Sherlock seemed worse now, almost worse than when he woke after the attacks. Now he was frightened at having disclosed what he knewand until Cartmere was in custody, he was clearly going to languish in a state of extreme anxiety.

At the moment, that anxiety was manifesting itself by Sherlock driving Mycroft up the wall. The flat was not large, and wishing for maximum privacy, they had no cleaner. Mycroft wasn't much cop at cleaning, but Sherlock was a positive menace. Steadily, the flat acquired an untidy and uncared for appearance and Sherlock's habits extended beyond the merely slovenly. His experiments littered what clear surfaces there were and worse, a number of really very valuable antique treasures Mycroft had brought here to gild their private nest, had been either destroyed or irreparably damaged. Not just china or glassware: a George III tureen made of silver had a huge and inexplicable dent. When quizzed about it by a pale-faced Mycroft, who was trying to keep a lid on his temper, Sherlock just waved his arm vaguely, mumbled something about "Baritsu" and "unanticipated weakness in my pinned leg causing trajectory drift". 

Mycroft gave up, got himself an apron and Marigolds and set to, making the flat at least clean, even if the contents were now about a fifth of their value a few weeks ago. He couldn't bear to chastise his brother to the degree he knew he should. Instead, he sat and glowered, his frustration becoming ever greater, sexually, emotionally, even physically. For the first time in his life, Mycroft really wanted to hit something or someone, hard. And the only person available to him was the one person he could never, would never harm.

……….

There had been no more sexual encounters, because Sherlock had not been to bed since he disclosed the identity of one of his attackers. Mycroft was not willing to press his brother, since although the desire he felt to touch him almost every minute of the day was real and visceral, he knew that nothing could be achieved without Sherlock making every step of the running. Without that, Mycroft could not feel that Sherlock was coming to him willingly, of need and desire and love and not from some kind of other motive. To put it bluntly, Sherlock's experiences must have screwed around with his brain on matters of sex and desire, and so anything less that consent writ large and bold was not to be relied on.

He did want his brother, though. Oh God, he wanted him. He wanted to explore him, ruin him and possess him completely. Mycroft knew that as well as protecting his brother and being as gentle as he needed to be for as long as Sherlock needed him to be, there was another side to their fledgling desire which was burning just below the surface. It was the kind of desire that would consume them completely. The desire that would see Sherlock on his knees, on the bed, on the floor and Mycroft taking and Sherlock silently and sweat-soaked, giving and giving. Mycroft edging him, using every available technique and toy for hours, until Sherlock was capable of little else than a whimper as Mycroft told him at last to come.

But they had a serial rapist and killer to arrest first. What the fuck was Lestrade playing at?

Mycroft decided enough was enough. Greg needed to explain himself, or else Mycroft would take control and deal with Cartmere and damn the consequences. He would gladly spend twenty five years in jail if it meant that beast drew his last breath seeing Mycroft smiling standing over him, his terror a mirror of that of his own victims, except Cartmere was a murderer and a fully grown man, and they were not, they were just children who should not be bones and ashes. 

............

Mycroft asked Sherlock to organise some takeaway to be delivered, enough for all three of them. However he told Sherlock he wanted to speak to Greg alone. Sherlock tried to argue, but Mycroft was firm. Both of them knew that his reasons were connected to what he might decide to do if Lestrade didn't come up with the goods, and the desire not to implicate Sherlock in anything of that. It was unspoken, but understood. Sherlock wasn't happy, still, but there was no moving Mycroft on this one. He stamped his way around the flat, still limping but getting closer to full mobility now and full stomp potential too.

Mycroft had asked that Greg come informally. This talk was going to be off the record in all senses. Greg had eagerly agreed, always seeming to be be able to make time for these meetings. Mycroft wasn't sure whether this was because Greg was afraid of him, attracted to him, or a mixture of the two, but either way, he wasn't above reaping the reward.

It had been raining hard all day, with strong winds and when Greg turned up in raincoat and tattered remains of an umbrella, his wet hair, all salt and pepper coloured, was plastered to his head. Always slightly tanned, his brilliant white even teeth shone. He looked fit, muscular and with the kind of open grin that was no doubt attractive to a wide audience.

If it wasn't for Sherlock, Mycroft knew, he might just... Could just... But his brother was all encompassing, possessing the fragility and strange beauty with which plain 'handsome' could never hope to compete. 

Greg was smiling at him now, eager, happy and damp still from the rain. Lovely brown eyes. A bit like a dog's eyes, trusting, melting.

Mycroft shook himself, to pay attention to what Greg was saying.

.............

There wasn't much that could shock Mycroft, but he soon realised from Greg's increasingly somber tone that the smiles had been pleasure at seeing Mycroft again, not an indication of good news in relation to the case against Cartmere.

Greg took some time to plod through the various actions taken, applications made, conversations held etc., but the bottom line was that each of these initiatives seemed to be met by obstruction in one way or another. Anthony was abroad. He was ill. He was on a trade mission to Tashkent. His mother was gravely ill. His mother had died. And so it went on...

Mycroft was angry and determined. Angry enough to rant at Greg, who in his line of work let it all wash over him. Besides, he quite liked Mycroft in full majestic verbal flow, it made him let down his impassive guard a bit. Greg would like to take it down all the rest of the way. He grinned at the thought, causing Mycroft to pause and frown.

'Something amusing, Lestrade?'

'Yeah', said Greg, still grinning. 'You. All spitting and fury. It's sort of sweet.'

Mycroft looked rather like Sherlock now, all arch horror and outraged expression.

Greg patted him on the shoulder.

'Listen. I haven't given up. But anything you can do, feel free, so long as I don't know about it and it doesn't involve any bodies. I don't want this evil shit to walk any more than you do. Just make sure you’re Teflon man, but I'm sure your line of work can help with that.'

..................

After Greg had, (somewhat reluctantly) left, Mycroft sat in his armchair and listened to the muffled sounds of Sherlock dismantling something that was unlikely to be designed to be dismantled, in the bedroom they shared.

He was thrown by Greg's easy amusement at his outburst, but at the same time, he admired it. He hadn't met anyone else who had treated him like that, fondly but not like a freak.

For now, though, he was focused on his target, Cartmere. And here his day job might come in handy. By the time he went up to bed, he had put plans in place to do quite a lot more digging on one Anthony Cartmere.

.......................

 

He had to tell Sherlock something, of course and he tried to spin the situation as positively as he could. His brother wasn't fooled.

'He's going to get away with it, isn't he? The murders, the rapes? And his mates too?'

Mycroft shook his head.

'Be patient. He will not get away with it. I promise you, Sherlock. I promise. Do you understand?'

Sherlock nodded, and leaned into Mycroft's chest. He took a shaky, long breath.

‘Myc, all the time he's walking free, I feel like he's in my head, laughing and taunting. That he's untouchable and I am nothing at all. I feel like something that fades further and paler until there's nothing left because of the shame and the sadness.'

Mycroft held his brother's face in his hands and looked into those pale eyes, the colour of the winter Atlantic and the light of a frosted lake at winter dawn.

Sherlock brushed a finger across Mycroft's lips.

'Mycroft, I want us to be more, to do more. I need to know that... what they did isn't the only way it can be. The only person I trust with that is you.'

Mycroft stared at him. It was one thing indulging in mutual masturbation, but this was another level of intimacy entirely that Sherlock was suggesting, if he was understanding him right.

'Sherlock, you are very young, still. The attack doesn't count. You could, you should, wait and experience it when you are older, when the memories of what happened have faded to an extent. Besides, it isn't long since... there were injuries... healing... unless you were thinking that you would... and I would... well... I've never - either - but, Sherlock, do you not think it is too soon? It's so soon. Too soon. And not something to consider lightly.'

Sherlock gave a small hollow laugh. He suddenly looked tired, way older than his years.

'Do you really think I am approaching any of this with any element of lightness, Myc? Really? Do you know me that little?'

Mycroft shook his head. He could kick himself. 

'No, I'm sorry. I don't think that. I shouldn't have said it.'

 

Sherlock looked pleadingly at him.

'Hold me.'

'Of course, Lock. And I'm not closing down this subject, I just need you to be sure and doing it for the right reasons.'

Sherlock shook his head. 

It's not that complicated. It's simple. 'Do you want me, Myc? Do you want to have me naked and flushed on your bed, spread out beneath you? Do you want to show me how it can be, how it should be? To fuck me until I can't speak. Do you want to come inside me, Myc, because I want you to. I really, really want you to.'

Mycroft felt a growing, insistent arousal at his brother's words and knew that whatever his misgivings, in the end, he would concede. Sherlock wanted him to fuck him. And Mycroft wasn't a good enough person to say no.

He didn't know when it would happen, but the thought alone of it was unbearably erotic.

……………..

 

Their mutual handjobs that night were frantic, and the shouts from Sherlock seemed triumphant, but this did little to dissipate the tension and anticipation in the air. "When???", the rooms seemed to echo, silently…


	21. Mycroft burns his bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to pursue Cartmere through official channels. The results cause him to decide whether to sleep with his brother...

Mycroft had not intended, never intended for anything to happen quickly with Sherlock, nor for their sexual relationship to stutter into this kind of discussion. And now, all he could make by way of token protest, was to insist that Sherlock attend his appointment at the hospital to check his injuries, do his physio exercises for his leg, and (and this bit was awkward), for Sherlock to undertake some “research” online, to make sure that he fully understood the potential issues and risks associated with what he was asking for.

For his part, Mycroft fitted in blood screening for them both, in between his day job and his efforts to bring Cartmere and co to some kind of justice.

………

This last quest was proving even more puzzling and frustrating than he had expected. He had thought that the main issue would be utilisation of scarce SIS resources on a completely unofficial project. Instead, though, when he put the assignment requests in, he got a strange reaction. In short, it didn't seem to be what he was asking to do, or of the resources required, but rather who he was seeking to investigate and monitor that was a problem for the Service..

As a result, Mycroft was called in later that week for an unscheduled “chat” and told by a woman at least four levels above his own pay grade, that he could investigate away any MP or member of the House of Lords he liked until the cows came home, but that they would prefer if he 'dropped the bone, Myc, just on this one.'

Mycroft asked why. “What made Cartmere special, other than enjoying raping and murdering teenage boys?” 

Such blunt accusations were not received without tightening of lips. Not the sort of approach you would expect, he could see them thinking, from a professional intelligence agent. Not very…intelligent. 

It was 'classified', was the only, repeated response.

Mycroft, white faced and tight lipped, asked his impassive superior if the Met had been given the same response. They “had”, apparently.

'Was he allowed to be told anything of the reasons for the block, given his security clearance?'

Apparently, such a disclosure would require a security clearance level way above Mycroft's junior rank.

Mycroft levelled with the woman. (He had been given her name, but knew there was little point in retaining what, after all, was clearly not her real name). She sat and gazed at him impassively as he described in great detail the medical report on Sherlock's internal injuries, the fate of the other three boys, the fears of another victim, another killing. When it was clear she was not going to respond, her face impassively pleasant, Mycroft slammed his fist on the table and stood to leave. He would bet his salary that she would do the same when sitting in on “enhanced interrogation” sessions too. 

He would have slammed the door after himself but instead had to wait for the time delay lock to be released by his inscrutable superior. As he reached for the door handle, hearing the buzz of the door catch release, she called his name and he span to face her. She spoke quietly and slowly.

'Holmes, we are very sympathetic. What your brother went through was horrific. You just need to understand that for our work, sometimes utility and wider national interests can triumph over justice, for a longer term good. And that speculative fishing expeditions rarely catch anything save for an abandoned shopping trolley and a bad cold.’

Mycroft was shaking now, though whether from fury or emotion was unclear both to him and his obstructive superior intelligence officer.

'What could possibly be his value, that it justifies allowing this man, a murderer and rapist, to go free?'

She shook her head.

'I'm sorry Mycroft, you know I am unable to share that with you.'

Mycroft nodded curtly, then left the room, and the building. He felt dirty in there, corrupted and the traffic fumes of the street felt like fresh spring air in comparison. He had no idea what he was going to do next. M15 were protecting Cartmere, and neither the Met nor Mycroft were being allowed to get anywhere near him.

He was untouchable.

'Officially untouchable', Mycroft murmured to himself and then, smiling grimly, he set off down the street, his umbrella tapping out a rhythmic code. The knowledge of these physical codes was being lost in the Information Age and no one noticed the words being tapped out by the tall thin man on the York stone flags of the pavement, interrupted only by occasional weaving around the smooth mottled trunks of the giant London plane trees.  
...............

When he got back to the flat, he found that Sherlock had tried to cook dinner. For a scientist, had always been surprisingly terrible in the kitchen, mainly because he spent so much time studying the effects of progressive carbonisation on Wagyu fillet steak or writing chemical reaction equations in icing sugar on cakes, that he rarely noticed the meal being sacrificed to his scientific cul de sac.

So it was today. Sherlock had a mixture of icing sugar and balsamic vinegar in his hair, the front of which was looking more than a little singed, the icing sugar here becoming more creme brûlée topping than light powder dusting. There was a bandage around his thumb and something black was smoking in a pan in the sink. It might have been beef, once. A cake had been baked, burned, and apparently thrown at the bin (without actually opening the bin, as it was decorating the top lid and a circle on the floor surrounding the receptacle). 

Sherlock looked miserable, grubby and close to tears. And Mycroft, able to offer him exactly nothing in terms of justice, at least in the short term, thought he had never looked so exquisite.

Instead of the dressing-down Sherlock was clearly expecting, Mycroft carefully put down his briefcase and umbrella, hung up his jacket and then walked over to his brother. He slowly ran his finger along the line of icing sugar garnishing the table. Then, slower still, brought the finger up to Sherlock's mouth. He had made his decision. What was the point of laws and rules when some people were completely immune? He was going to break this one law, and hurt no one. Then, afterwards, fortified by their union, he was going to hurt someone very very badly indeed..

'Suck.'

And his brother did.

Mycroft felt impotent to deliver justice to Sherlock. This, however, he could give him. On his phone he had the blood test results and the report (unofficial) from the doctor Sherlock had seen today. They were both clear. Only an attack of law-abiding conscience, but the law had proved a false friend to the brothers and Mycroft regularly crossed the legal line at work. His conscience was in the service now of himself and his brother, no one else.

He heard Sherlock's breath quicken, and gently brushed his lips on his brother's neck. Sherlock gasped and Mycroft felt an almost painful jump in his guts. He pressed his face against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock was staring straight ahead, Mycroft could tell. His hands were clenched and his whole body vibrated with raw tension.

'Myc?'

'Sherlock. What you want. Whatever you need. All of it. It's all fine. Just be mindful, that once we open this Pandora's box, there is no shutting it. We will have to live with the consequences forever, and that may not be easy.'

Sherlock turned slightly to rest his forehead on Mycroft's head. He looked utterly relieved, utterly happy, though not the slightest bit triumphant.

Mycroft was grateful for that, now, but much more, later.

 

…………………

 

They sat quietly on the sofa, drinking tea, then, which seemed so utterly incongruous and so bloody, bloody British that the tea cosy might as well have been a soldier's Busby ceremonial hat from the Palace.

'Your medical results were clear'. A phone held up, to show Sherlock the scrolling tables of individual test outcomes.'

It didn't seem odd that Mycroft should have the results and not Sherlock. It seemed right.

'You know about my medical today, then, too?'

Mycroft inclined his head.

Sherlock smiled, looking like a child who loses their teddy and then, just when all hope is gone, finds it undamaged.

'Then, we can. When?'

Mycroft turned the phone over and over in his hand. Then he looked up, eyes burning with emotion.

'If you will have me, Lock, if you will let me take care of you, then I think, I rather think, that I would like to love you tonight.'

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, smiling, and his arms enveloped Mycroft in a hug so utterly unlike Sherlock that Mycroft had to wonder if his brother was feeling quite all right.

'Shower, Sherlock, go now. You watched the online material, you know it's important. I will shower after you.'

Sherlock nodded and as he left the room, Mycroft noticed a slight spring to his still limping stride that he hadn't seen since before the attack.

Mycroft poured himself an obscenely generous brandy, and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of his younger brother ritually cleaning himself so that he, Mycroft Holmes, would fuck him. Mycroft's thoughts used the slang to try to see if he could shock himself out of this crazy destructive intent. Instead, he felt his cock fill, and even more shamefully, his mouth water, just at the thought.

It might be Sherlock who was being fucked tonight, but really, Mycroft thought, it was he who was truly fucked here. Completely and utterly fucked.

He heard the shower door open. He waited until he could hear that Sherlock had moved to the bedroom. He tried not to think about what Sherlock was doing - with himself - to himself, as he showered himself. Then, towel around his waist but naked otherwise, Mycroft left the bathroom, and opened the bedroom door.

Within, lay his sixteen year old brother, and a lifetime of secrecy. 

He walked into the bedroom.


	22. Irrevocable sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, after 22 chapters of waiting, finally Mycroft and Sherlock do the Thing. I hope I did it justice!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit anal sex, obviously

Mycroft walked forward, into the room, this room they had shared privately and secretly. But now, for the first time, he intended for there to be something to be secretive about.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed. His clothes had mainly been discarded around the room and Mycroft could see that he had gone through a couple of changes of mind about what to retain and what to undress. He now wore only smooth white fine-knit boxer trunks, but the wrinkles and crease positioning were eloquent as to their having been discarded and then put on again. The old soft T-shirt Sherlock wore inside out was the opposite case, here, he had clearly initially considered retaining it, but eventually had dropped it by the side of the bed.

Mycroft had not discussed practicalities with Sherlock, but had instead ensured there was lube and condoms available. The former was non-negotiable, of course, but the latter would depend on Sherlock. If they got that far. Mycroft considered that there was a decent chance that Sherlock, or even himself, would be unable to see this thing through.

..................

Whether he could see it through, he was certainly intent on starting it. He left only a small some light burning, and with the blackout curtains drawn, he turned towards the bed. Sherlock looked as though he was overwhelmed, eyes fixed on his brother's.

'I don't know what to do. I watched... Some stuff... But they were all professionals and clearly there was Viagra and off screen prep involved, no one’s arsehole is like that normally...'

Mycroft smiled and took Sherlock's long, bony hands in his own.

'It's okay, Sherlock. Neither of us know, not for sure, but we don't need to. All we need to know is that we can stop anytime, that slow means just that and no means stop the thing we are doing. 'Red' means stop everything, abort.'

Mycroft leaned in.

Is this something you still want, Lock? I will ask you again, before - it, but are you still determined this is what's right for you?'

Sherlock smiled a watery, nervous smile.

'I'm scared, yes. But I've never wanted anything more. And I trust you.'

Mycroft turned off the remaining light and, one hand still holding Sherlock's, released the towel slung around his hips with the other hand. He felt his brother's grip tighten, as Mycroft's cock sprang free, already half hard.

Sherlock reached forward and touched the penis, in awe and almost horrified fascination. It jumped as his fingers made contact, and Sherlock made a surprised 'oh' sound. Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, trying to compute the fact that despite the hand jobs of recent nights, this was clearly utterly different and both he and his brother were seemingly overwhelmed at the prospect. He felt a hand brush over his meticulously short trimmed public hair. He'd never felt the urge to shave completely, but in this as in all things he needed to feel in control. Like now. He needed to take control, before one or both of them bolted.

He smiled at Sherlock with a confidence that was all bravado, and drew him down onto the bed until they were kneeling, and then lying together. Like the lamb lying down with the lion, he thought, from the Bible, or more likely familiar to Sherlock with his sweet tooth, like the motto on the beloved dark green and gilt tins of golden syrup from their childhood. When his father was foul to his brother, Mycroft would take out the tin he hid under his bed specifically for such occasions and allow Sherlock to eat a spoonful.

Sherlock's pants were tented unmistakably now and a damp spot had formed. Yet there was hesitation. After so many months, years even, of mustn't, shouldn't, won't, daren't, Mycroft waited at the gates of damnation.

And then he fell, or jumped, he wasn't sure which it was and he cared little. His mouth sought his brother's lips and they kissed for the first time in passion, not compassion. It was like an electric surge pulsing through them both. Mycroft took his time, gentle and not forceful, but still, behind the manners, there was an urgency building, and eventually, with Sherlock squirming against him with a lack of control Mycroft envied, Mycroft took the initiative and pressed and licked and demanded entry to Sherlock's mouth, and secured his prize. It was messy and amateur, there were clicks of teeth and a slightly bitten tongue and it felt like the best thing ever, adding sensations neither had felt before now, knowing that it was just the start, just a rough sketch of their loving.

..............

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, with two darker pink patches along his cheekbones. Mycroft saw that his right hand was down now into his pants and his little brother was pulling at his own cock rather inexpertly.

Mycroft pulled away from the kissing, ignoring the whine that resulted.

'It's all right, Lock. Let me help.'

Instead of taking his hand down to guide Sherlock in the finer details of the art of competent masturbation, Mycroft moved down the bed until he was face to face with a very hard, already slightly slick and really quite beautiful cock.

It was better this way, Mycroft calculated. He didn't want Sherlock to be faced with his own penis in the same manner, suspecting what his brother might recall of the assault. And to bring Sherlock to a level of arousal that was distracting might be important.

If he was honest, Mycroft knew that he was probably more anxious than Sherlock was. Neither had ever done this, in any normal context, and Sherlock was placing such faith in him.

Before he lowered his head and took Sherlock in his mouth, he murmured.

'It doesn't have to be now, Lock. It doesn't have to be me?'

Sherlock was trembling but his answer was clear, his cock fully hard now and he arched sinuously. This brought his cock within a couple of inches of Mycroft's mouth and Mycroft knew there would be no more discussion. Sherlock trusted him, and trusted no one else, and he could do this for him.

He gently brought the tip of Sherlock's cock to his lips and kissed it. He glanced up, saw long eyelashes flutter, and took the head into his mouth. This time, a small whimper.

It all went according to plan. Mycroft ended up with Sherlock's prick halfway down his throat. The only problem was that Sherlock was getting carried away and Mycroft realised that if Sherlock came, he wouldn't have anything to concentrate on when it came to prep and penetration and the possible temporary discomforts of that. So Mycroft, verbal exhortations having been ignored, ended up having to leap to his feet and off the bed altogether, to escape his brother's youthful enthusiasm.

They hadn't used a condom, clear results meaning neither had felt the need or wish and Mycroft suspected they would stay in the drawer.

Sherlock looked a debauched mess on the bed, his cock lying flat, almost purple against his stomach, twitching, hands held tightly above his head. His eyes were open, and his mouth too. He looked winded, like an animal hit a glancing blow by a car. His hair was damp and curls scrambled, like honeysuckle intertwined. There were curls on his neck that Mycroft had never observed before. He wanted to hold them, to pull just a little.

Sherlock hadn't trimmed or shaved his pubic hair, the dark auburn frizz seeming almost exotic after all that bald-balled gay porn. For Mycroft, it was part of his brother’s unique charm, being something which he wouldn't have especially valued in others, yet in Sherlock it spoke of his natural beauty and lack of artifice. And it smelled of Sherlock. And now it smelled of sex and Sherlock.

...........

Sherlock was pouting, maybe even scowling. Mycroft was now back at eye level.

'Myc, you'd better not be answering your phone. Why have you stopped? Please, for God's sake, I need you to finish this..

'Shhh. Shush. Shut up. I want you to come with me inside you. Ok?'"

Sherlock looked a little ashamed then.

'I want - that - too.'

Mycroft slipped one hand down to Sherlock's penis, but instead of touching him there, his hand ghosted over it, back gently, and now he was gently massaging Sherlock's arse, one cheek, then the other. Sherlock sighed, comfortable now with progress and watched through heavy lidded almond eyes as his brother's fingers deftly massaged his flesh, before moving again. This time, his journey took him to the place they both knew they had been focused on. Sherlock had wanted and Mycroft had waited; and now Mycroft's finger breached Sherlock's most defiled and yet most innocent place. Mycroft went slowly, reverently and explored all. He felt the slight imperfections left by the scarring from Sherlock's injuries. He felt the tightness that persisted, nonetheless. And he heard Sherlock experience this for the first time fully conscious, fully aware. Mycroft had worried that Sherlock would panic, that he would run and this would be a disaster that would ruin their relationship, but now for the first time he heard Sherlock moan, and it wasn't a moan of pain or fear. It was unmistakeable one of pleasure, asking for more.

A second finger added produced more unearthly delightful sounds, then a third provided the only equivocal moment, when Sherlock asked him to stop for a moment. Mycroft immediately removed his fingers, but that produced a squeak of 'Not out, just stop, still, wait!', and he was able to reintroduce his fingers. He was playing with his own cock now, and sweat was beginning to gather at his hairline.

....................

When it came, the moment of penetration was almost overwhelming for both of them. Neither realised they had been holding their breath. Sherlock was on his back, Mycroft unwilling to consider entering him without Sherlock being able to keep eye contact and use his safe word as immediately as he needed to. This wasn't about pounding into his brother; this was about making sex an act of love rather than violence.

It was difficult, that first moment. Sherlock tensed and gripped onto Mycroft's forearms so hard that Mycroft had to look to him for a nod to continue. He did not do so straight away, overwhelmed by the explosion of emotion that washed over him. Raised up on one arm, penis just inside Sherlock, just barely breaching him, Mycroft stroked his brother's brow, taking the sweat away from his eyes.

'Are you alright, Lock? Is this what you want?'

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. He was wide eyed.

Mycroft leaned down to kiss him. 

'I love you, Sherlock. I love you, and I need you. I will never forsake you, be sure of that. I just - love you.'

Sherlock nodded again, more slowly. 

'Myc, I want this, want you. Only you, always Myc. We don't need anyone else. We never will.'

And Mycroft groaned and started to move, so that he was gradually, so slowly, penetrating deeper with each push, and it was gruelling, a bit, for a time, because he was big and his brother was tight and his scarring made it more so, the passage a little less smooth.

At first so slow. That being said, and this being Mycroft's first time too, it was true that his intentions to maintain the slow and gentle pace were lost to the moment before long.

The reality of being inside his brother, actually in him, Sherlock surrounding his, flesh holding flesh, the pressure and the impossibility of all of this sensation, pushed his reverent worship over the edge of a cliff.

Sherlock felt the increase in pace, and groaned, but when Mycroft tried to hesitate, his brother was having none of it.

'Jesus, Mycroft, give me more, please. Show me you mean it. Show me you want me. I need you to want me, to fill me with yourself....'

This last sentence ended in a guttural grunt, as a grateful Mycroft drew back and then slammed back into Sherlock. The pace was such that Sherlock was shunted up the bed until he was right at the headboard, and his insensible cries were loud enough that if the window had been open, the traffic din might still have been drowned out.

Mycroft took Sherlock's cock in his hand, but didn't have to masturbate him to orgasm. As he gripped the tight full flesh, balls drew back in reaction, and then in three long ribboning pulses, Sherlock came, tearful and smiling and then Mycroft was giving five final hard thrusts and the clenching flesh in glorious spasm was clamping him and then he was coming too. He could feel the pressure increase inside as the liquid essence of him pumped wildly into his brother's arse and he'd never experienced anything so strange, so full of sin, yet so terrifyingly beautiful in all his life.

............

Sherlock didn't want him to pull out. So they didn't clean up, or shower, or even wipe themselves. Instead, they lay on the sweat-soaked bed, with sweat-soaked bodies, in a state of equal shock and bliss. Of course, eventually Mycroft's cock was limp) and it slipped from Sherlock's hole with a small rush of lube and semen. Mycroft thought that rather undignified, but Sherlock purred and pulled his brother towards him, long arms and legs entangling in his own. A sleepy panther, satiate.

………

They weren't sure how long they slept, but when they woke, they were crusted with the evidence of their crime and the bed was cold and damp. Mycroft made Sherlock go to the bathroom, and then he washed him gently, from head to toe, carefully examining him for any signs of injury caused by their excitement. There were none. He wrapped Sherlock in a fluffy towel, drying his hair with a second, and then settled him on the sofa, and put some frozen pastries in to bake. It was apple and cinnamon strudel, Sherlock's favourite, and the aroma soon filled the flat.

When he opened the curtains, Mycroft felt like he'd been reborn, that this was a new day for them both and that nothing, nothing on this earth, would ever divide them again. The cool grey light shone in, London’s soft gift of gentle weather. The buses hooted, and Mycroft smiled.


	23. Setting the trap with bait of gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock explore each other, though Mycroft fears for the future. A trap is laid for Cartmere. Greg Lestrade is reduced to sad wanking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there won't be a mid week update this week as I'm a bit behind and also am away for some of the week with family stuff. 
> 
> So next update will be next weekend. 
> 
> Teaandcakes xx
> 
> PS I should send a regular hug to my marvellous beta NotIdiotProof. She is the reason that this fic, and my others, are readable and coherent. Throws gay glitter at her!

There was something magical about that morning, something that made Mycroft's heart sing so loud within that he couldn't believe no one could hear it. It felt like everything was sweeter, happier, freer. Certainly Sherlock was irrepressible, gleeful almost, once he'd dressed and eaten. 

They had sex again, the daylight bringing a strange intimacy and sharp focus to what they were doing. Again, they were face to face and Mycroft found that in daylight his conscience about what they were doing pricked him more sharply than it had at night. It seemed more real, somehow, less dreamlike. 

It didn't stop him becoming erect though, at the sight of his brother. Nor did it stop him holding Sherlock by the hips to drive into him countless times. And it didn't stop him groaning as he came, hard and fast, the evidence of his irredeemable sin sealed in his brother's body for a short time until a small amount dripped slowly and heedlessly from him. It seemed to say to Mycroft that however well they concealed, however good their front, one day, the secret would be out, their corruption revealed. 

Sherlock's obvious youth in the light of the day also troubled Mycroft. He knew that on paper it really didn't look good. His brother was barely sixteen, had recently been raped and left for dead by older men. It would look, definitely look, as if Mycroft had just been waiting to make a move and did so at the most vulnerable moment in Sherlock's life. That he chose to wait for Sherlock to have attained an age which would make the sex legal in the UK if it were not for the fact it was with his brother. 

So, even as Mycroft smoothed down Sherlock's skin with a warm damp flannel and cuddled the sleepy, bony boy, he wondered just how long they had got, before the bubble burst. 

Perhaps he would go to prison, it was quite possible. And he knew how that went, for those perceived as child abusers, let alone adding incest into the mix…

In the light of that, he thought, flannel pausing in its progress down the smooth planes of pale skin, Cartmere needed to be dealt with quickly. He might not be at liberty to deliver his own form of justice forever. His flannel moved again, but snagged and caught on the numerous still-healing scars on Sherlock's lower back. There would be justice, Mycroft thought, but not mercy. Never mercy. Not for this man.

..................

Mycroft should have felt his ears burning. 

'Kicking up a bit of a stink about Cartmere, that Holmes youngster. Not very good for his career prospects. We've all had to learn that.'

'Mmm.' The second man stirred his tea thoughtfully. 'I hope that this business with his brother isn't going to render Mycroft too much of a liability. I have - had - high hopes for him. Hadn't appreciated that his quaint desire for that myth they call 'justice' would cause him to be so... Well, hotheaded.'

'Yes, quite. Well, he's been told the lie of the land, now, anyway. He should concentrate on looking after his brother, instead of seeking out moral vengeance. Cartmere's way too valuable an asset, regrettably, for that to be allowed.'

'I'm surprised that he isn't. They're very close, the Holmes boys. Just a pity the younger lad is now perhaps too psychologically unstable. He would have made a fine field agent.'

The other man muttered. 

‘I disagree. Too left field for my liking, that young Sherlock. We need agents who are dependable, not all fur coat and no knickers and fireworks. No, I wouldn't have had him even before this, I don't need the aggravation it would involve. I just hope he doesn't drag his brother down with him.'

They got up, draining their tea cups, and picked up their files. Several security barriers later, they were back at their desks, plotting alien nuclear submarine movements off the coast of Scotland and incursions into British airspace. 

....................

How to get to Cartmere? 

Mycroft was preoccupied with this thought. So it was that he was lying on the bed on Saturday a week later, a bed much abused in the past few days. He was being sucked off by Sherlock, who had never done it but who, of course, turned out to be a natural. Perhaps it was all those porn videos Mycroft had made him watch online. 

He lay back as Sherlock leaned over him, taking him in impossibly deep. Not quite a lack of gag reflex, but almost. Mouth and hands were working him slickly and expertly, and Mycroft's last thought in that split second space between 'going to come' and 'coming' was "Mummy".

This wasn't quite as disturbing as it might seem. Of course. Mummy had been at Harvard at the same time as Cartmere, he was sure of it. Maybe they knew one another? Maybe the Brits stuck together, a little homesick? Maybe they could… ahhh… then his world exploded in orgasm. 

................

'Of course I know Tony Cartmere, darling, why do you ask? And when are you and Sherlock coming to visit. I haven't seen a bit of either of you since you spirited him away from the hospital to some terrible dive in Cricklewood.'

'West Hampstead, Mother. It's West Hampstead.'

'Yes well, darling, that's what everyone in Cricklewood says. About as convincing as North Kensington if you ask me. You could be practically in Hendon these days and still claim it was Hampstead borders. Ridiculous. If you can't get the “Ham and High” at the newsagent nearest you, you aren't Hampstead. It's a shame, but that's the truth of it...'

'Mother! Could you shut up for a moment! I need to ask you a favour. And it will mean you get Sherlock and me home for a whole weekend.'

'For that prize, anything darling! What do you need me to do?'

'I want you to invite Cartmere to a dinner party, at the house.'

'But why, Mycroft? I haven't seen him in years! He's done all that politicking and then there's all his charity commitments. He's amazing, the amount he does, and not just the easy roles either. There's an orphanage in Bangkok, I think, and a project for street children in Kolkata. And that's on top of the time he spends here, working with children's charities in the UK...'

Mycroft cut in. He couldn't listen to any more detailing of Cartmere's connections with children's organisations. 

'Can I ask you, just this once, Mummy, not to ask me that? I need Cartmere to be flushed out and he's a snob of the first order. He's never been to dinner here and he's obsessive about the Scottish Colourists. He won't be able to resist that gorgeous Cadell in the drawing room, if you tell him about it in passing.'

Mrs Holmes, never a silly woman at her worst moments and now relatively harmless having lost the twin burdens of a bully of a husband and the impossibility of managing Sherlock on a daily basis, sighed. 

'You're up to something. Is it work? Is it dangerous? Is he - Cartmere I mean - dangerous?'

Mycroft smiled thinly. 

'He's very dangerous. But I think not to you or I. It is Sherlock who we will need to protect and guard.'

Mummy's brow wrinkled, confused. 

'Why does Sherlock know him? Did he give a talk at school? Or prize giving?'

Mycroft shook his head. 

'He doesn't know him well. I need to… talk to Cartmere. Tell him about the Cadell and if that doesn't work, tell him that I will be there and Sherlock too. I don't think he will be able to resist coming if you do.'

Mummy hummed, still baffled, but agreed to ring Cartmere through contact with one of his fellow Lords, whom she was in touch with.

...............

 

Although he had promised to deliver up Sherlock, Mycroft was troubled. He didn't intend Sherlock to meet Cartmere but even having him in proximity to that... To him...was probably very ill-advised. Yet without him producing Sherlock, Cartmere might not put in an appearance.

Mycroft was sure that Cartmere was sadistic enough to dare to show himself if it meant he could see the victim who got away with his life, and maybe to taunt the boy, or worse. 

It was a gamble, but one he was going to take. Though he didn't know how much, if anything, to tell Sherlock. 

.................

Greg was back, jingling coins in his pockets and looking like the slightly scruffy but pleasing sight he usually did. Mycroft had made the mistake of asking about his weekend and Greg was telling him about 'the match'. Mycroft knew there was more than one football game at the weekend in the UK, but since he suspected he had been told who Greg supported quite a few times previously, he didn't feel he could enquire (it wasn't only Sherlock who could delete the dullest of facts). Anyway, the favoured collection of overpaid and undereducated young men had apparently 'played a blinder'. Mycroft nodded in what he hoped was a supportive way, making encouraging noises. Greg looked pleased and the tips of his tanned ears turned just very slightly pink. Mycroft did not delete that fact. 

Mycroft briefed Greg on his plans. Greg was aghast at the idea of Sherlock as bait, but Mycroft was adamant. Nothing else, he said, could lure out the suspect, who had the best legal team and numerous bolt holes around the globe to flee to. 

'What are you going to do once you have him there?'

'Nothing excessive', Mycroft murmured and drank down the remains of his whisky.

Lestrade waited for more detail. He got none. In the end, he left, sporting an empty notepad, a slightly thick head, and more than a slight erection. 

'Maybe I'm turned on by ruthless gingers?', he thought morosely. 'What a fate.'


	24. Spinning a web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short and after a week. And the next update will be next weekend too. I've been away at my parents because my Mummy isn't too well. So just treading water with this for this week, hopefully back to full speed next week.

Mycroft told Sherlock about the planned dinner, once he returned from work that night. He was tired out. Several surveillance assignments had met problems, mostly resolvable, but one not so good. An agent - a good agent - shot in the back - was clinging stubbornly to life, but the man wasn't going to walk again, let alone work again. Mycroft had racked his brain to analyse if there was something that could have been done differently, that would have avoided the events unfolding as they did. He couldn't find anything. But he still worried, that he was losing his touch, that maybe sex was distracting him, that he was losing focus. 

Sherlock was lounging on the sofa when he got in. He was wearing D&G underpants which left little to the imagination, paired with a T shirt that looked as though it had been through a hot wash by mistake. Too small, too clingy. He must have acquired a box of Celebrations from somewhere, because there were shiny wrappers scattered around the place and his brother's cheek showed evidence of the latest consumption. There must be at least three in there. The TV was blaring too, Countdown. "Lord help me", Mycroft frowned. Sometimes his brother was more six than sixteen. 

'Sherlock. Can you speak?'

Sherlock nodded but went a bit red. 'Ot erry well. Not ocolate, offee.'

Mycroft looked disagreeable. 

'Swallow, brother.'

He gave Sherlock such a withering look while saying this, that his brother, trying to snigger at the innuendo, instead started choking violently. 

Mycroft left the room and fetched some water. He handed it over wordlessly.

..............

It was surprising, how Sherlock took the news that he might, at least fleetingly, have to see his alleged attacker, or one of them at least. Mycroft had thought he would be frightened, or refuse outright. Instead, Sherlock seemed almost manically excited about the prospect of snaring the man and was eager to play a bigger role than that which Mycroft would permit him. Mycroft was clear. Sherlock was only to appear when scheduled, he was to be wearing body armour and the Met were to be positioned in suitable stations around the house. 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. He'd thought that Mycroft was intending to eliminate Cartmere. Instead, it looked as though he was going to meekly hand him over to Greg's officers for a half hearted questioning followed by pressure from above and the release without charge of their suspect. 

Mycroft, seeing Sherlock's mind whirring, addressed his confusion.

'I need Greg's men there, Lock, to show that Cartmere is prepared to evade answering their questions. I don't believe he will allow himself to be taken into custody. And when he doesn't, when he loses control of the situation, that is my chance, our chance, to speak to him on our own terms.'

'Will you kill him?' Sherlock tried to feel repulsed by the idea but could not, not for this man. 

'If necessary, yes, without hesitation. If he fails to provide a full and unambiguous confession and name all his accomplices, then he dies.'

'How will you get away with that?'

'I have my methods, Sherlock. I have been doing a little legwork. Exhausting and hell on good tailoring. But I must keep my powder dry for now on the detail.'

Sherlock nodded, and yawned. Their lovemaking was energetic and the occurrences frequent, and whilst he invariably bottomed, it did not mean that he did not expend a large dose of energy matching Mycroft thrust for thrust.

They turned in early that night, therefore, after a bath so lengthy that their fingers and toes were crinkled and pale and the water topped up three times. Sherlock sucked Mycroft off underneath the bedcovers, slowly and sweetly. Mycroft came hard down his throat, hands gripping his skull. Sherlock emerged out of the covers and kissed him, licking Mycroft's own semen into his mouth, then licking it out again. 

Mycroft slept with Sherlock pressed right up against him, whole bodies fitting flesh to flesh. It felt like a laser guided pattern had designed them to knit together perfectly. Perfect, immaculate, mind blowing. Mycroft fell asleep with words like these spinning elegantly in front of his eyes.


	25. Crepes Suzette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown with Sherlock's attacker. Mycroft is ready to strike, but things don't go according to the script. Greg is a hero.

The gravel crunched underfoot as Mycroft and Sherlock approached the front door of the Holmes family home. A crow screeched from a nearby plane tree, and Sherlock jumped. Mycroft placed a hand on the small of his back, then moved it to Sherlock's hip. It was settling, calming. Possessive, too. He meant it to be, Sherlock knew. He was still twitchy, the fears of encountering one of his assailants, one of his degraders, having grown over the last twenty four hours, until now, the hour of his encounter, he was ready to run as far and as fast as he could get. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. It was only the gentle encouraging pressure of Mycroft's hand that kept any semblance of forward motion. 

His mother opened the door herself, but at once they sensed that something was awry. She was too talkative, too bright-eyed. Given her track record it didn't take a genius to realise she'd resorted to some Dutch Courage in one form or another. Mycroft hoped fervently that she kept her actual shit together for long enough to see this thing through.. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft could see Lestrade's men, two of them, one at the corner of the house and one in the reflection of the hallway mirror into the study. They would secrete themselves before Cartmere arrived, but Mycroft was glad he'd seen them. 

They were not armed, which was unfortunate. Lestrade had explained to Mycroft that the target was not considered a firearms risk. Also, this operation was booked as a straightforward routine security detail, because anything else would have revealed that the house visitor was the man being protected by both the Chief Constable of police and the security services. So no SO19 units with machine guns in the boot of the car and no anonymous spooks turning up bristling with firearms and then melting away afterwards. The only people here armed were Cartmere, if he came tooled up and Mycroft himself. 

They went into the house. It was quiet, and apart from the young policeman sniffing and wheezing in the study due to hay fever, all seemed serene. 

Mummy made them eat Bath Oliver biscuits smeared with cream cheese and some pastry abomination filled with pesto and some kind of game sausage. Sherlock looked glum. He'd have sooner eaten a plain cracker, anything else would be unlikely to stay down. He trembled, biting his lip. He was dressed in a green T shirt and frayed black jeans with espadrilles. His black hair and green slanting eyes made him look like some nautical creature, emerging bathed in seaweed from the waves to make shipwrecked sailors' dreams come true.

Mycroft wondered if his brother had ever looked more desirable. It was all he could do not to push him to the floor and fuck him here, in front of the Met, in front of his own mother. Instead, he could only hug Sherlock, briefly for reasons of physical frailty and then watch as his brother left to take up his pre-assigned position outside on the terrace, just outside the drawing room French doors opening out onto the garden.

Then it was too late to think more of stripping his brother, of tasting him, because Greg was here, and smiling at him supportively, and letting him know that Cartmere was now only about a mile away. 

...............

His mother greeted Cartmere. It was all 'Anthony' and 'Violet', all cheek kisses and expensive cologne and scent. Then the peer turned to Mycroft. 

'Anthony, this is my elder son, Mycroft. He's in the Civil Service.' 

'Really. How interesting.' Which was British for 'I couldn't be less interested if I tried.'

Mycroft smiled, the smile of a fox. He didn't lick his lips, but he had his prey in his sight. 

'Yes. I work on troubleshooting projects...'

Cartmere wasn't listening, already turning away. Mycroft wanted to grasp his neck here, now, to squeeze the life breath from him until he begged for his life and then to keep doing it at just the right pace to kill the man (whilst allowing him to understand that he was being killed) for as long as possible. 

Instead, he offered his brother's rapist, who had left the most precious being in Mycroft's life for dead, dumped in a trade waste bin, a glass of Chablis and a blini. And bore his icy glaze into the man's back as he turned away and bit into the yielding canapé. He looked so ordinary here, so benign. . 

Trotsky was murdered in Mexico by an ice pick in his back. There was only an ice bucket here. 

............

It was almost time for dinner. Mummy was chatting to Anthony about the Cadell that hung above the fireplace. Mummy liked it. Sherlock didn't. Daddy only bought it because he saw the demand rising and thought he could make some money. Mycroft didn't care about the painting. Only about his brother.

They sat down at table. Conversation was stilted, but the wine flowed and the beef Wellington was spectacular. Mycroft could see Greg through some carefully angled mirrors from his seat at the head of the table. No one else from the Met was in sight now, and Cartmere couldn't see Greg from his seat. 

'So tell me about the Lords, Anthony. Are the seats very uncomfortable? Is it a bore or a pleasant way of spending your time?' 

Mummy was wittering. Mycroft was drinking too much. Cartmere was smirking too much. A fly buzzed around them. Mycroft flattened it with a newspaper, and the crack made everyone jump. 

………………..

Time for dessert. The previous courses had been brought in by Holmes staff, quietly and efficiently. Now, however, the door from the kitchen was flung open and a figure stalked in, wielding a flaming silver platter of Crepes Suzette. He bowed, just slightly and went to serve Mycroft. 

'Our guest, first, please, brother.'

The figure nodded, and swept the platter around the table to where Anthony Cartmere sat. The server bent down a little, and whispered something in Cartmere's ear. 

Cartmere looked shocked for a moment, struck dumb. He glanced up at his waiter, and met Sherlock's pale eyes burning into him. He knew those eyes. Had marvelled at their colour and unique shape and character, even while he laughed as he opened the boy up - just a little - with a snooker cue. Hole in one. The thought made him smile, and when he saw that Sherlock could read his thoughts, his smile grew. 

Then he pushed his plate away. 

'Not hungry any more. Once you've had this dessert once, it's not impressive anymore. Just pancakes and orange, isn't it? There's no enjoyment in going back for seconds. I like to try something different each time I eat.'

Mycroft was struggling to contain himself. Disgusting, depraved creature. He glanced at Sherlock. He looked impassive, apart from a tiny tic at the corner of his mouth, standing there with the flaming plate.

Cartmere hadn't finished. 

'Obviously I don't expect you to agree with me, Mycroft. You seem to enjoy leftovers, even when they're messy. Sloppy seconds not a problem for you, it seems.'

Mycroft stared at him. He couldn't know. It wasn't possible. 

'I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean?'

He knew it was risky, challenging Cartmere. 

Anthony leaned back in his chair. 

'Come, come, Mycroft. My contacts keep me well informed. And I'm not sure that the Met would be putting on this charming surveillance operation if they knew that the respectable Mr Holmes senior was fucking his little brother? Do you? Hope you lads in blue got all that clearly?'

Mycroft heard the sound of Lestrade dropping his headset. He heard Mummy whisper something that was somewhere between a 'No!' and a moan. And then he heard the sound of something glugging out of a bottle, followed by the sound of the rough scratch of a match being lit. After that, there was a screaming, and then everything became confused. He saw a figure – Anthony Cartmere – engulfed in flames and the smell of melting flesh. There was the lick of orange flame and smoke, thick smoke everywhere and someone very strong was swearing and dragging him out of the building.

……………….

After that, there was nothing. 

The next thing he remembered, Mycroft came to lying on the pavement with his head on Greg's folded coat and an oxygen mask over his face.

'Sherlock?' He croaked the word in panic. 

Greg looked down at him, his expression conflicted. 

'Alive.'

Mycroft nodded. 

'Hospital or here?'

Greg shook his head. He looked ashen.

'Neither, Mycroft. He's in custody.'


	26. Greg and Mycroft talk honestly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, policemen can lie for the right reasons. And for love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter BUT there will be another at the weekend hurrah!

It was later, quite a bit later on that day, before Mycroft woke again. The nurse said that his mother had been in but had gone again. His mother. Shit. He hadn't even asked about her. 

A dishevelled figure slumped on a chair in the corner. Mycroft cleared his smoke-scorched throat and the figure woke with a start. 

'Gregory. You look uncomfortable. I am assuming you are still here because you wish to talk with me about something. And that you are unaccompanied because the subject matter you wish to discuss is… sensitive.'

Greg rubbed his face with his palm and fixed his tired dark brown eyes on Mycroft. 

'Is it true, Mycroft? None of the others heard, but I did. I heard, Mycroft, what Cartmere said. So, is it true?'

Mycroft fiddled with the cuff of his hospital issue gown. He found it hard to meet the eyes that bore into him. 

'It seems that I have placed myself and my younger brother in something of a predicament, Gregory. Something that was always going to remain a private matter between us, that should have stayed thus, now will be disclosed in open court should Sherlock stand trial for... What exactly, Greg? What do you charge a teenager with, precisely, when he kills the man who raped and all but murdered him? Triggered by that man taunting him about the attack? So, I find myself at a loss as to the best course of action. Either Sherlock is ruined by disclosure of our relationship, or by going to prison for many years, or both. Unless the case is dropped.'

Greg had sat during much of the day thinking about this mess. About the fact that as a copper, he knew what he should do, but as a human, he knew what he wanted to do. His motives for the latter were complicated and that made it all so, so much more difficult. 

Greg took a deep breath. Right up to that moment he was still deliberating. Then he glanced at Mycroft's face, scorched, haggard, devastated. In a split second Greg made his decision. Because Mycroft might love Sherlock, but Greg loved Mycroft, even if he might never have him. Someone once told him that there was no such thing as unrequited love, that without reciprocation it was simply a crush. He knew that person was wrong. 

.............

'Right. I've had enough of this. No one except you, me and Sherlock saw what happened - and Cartmere of course, but he's dead. No one in their right mind who saw what I saw when we dragged Sherlock out of that skip and those kids' body parts out of the rubbish tip, would spare Cartmere a moment's remembrance or regret or obligation to tell the full truth. The fire was an accident, okay, Sherlock tripped with the flaming tray and Cartmere upset the bottle of Grand Marnier as he leapt up from his chair to avoid the tray. The flames caught the alcohol - and whoosh. Up goes our number one enemy of kids.'

Mycroft's eyes were wide. He'd underestimated Lestrade by a long, long way. This was very brave but very risky for Greg. Mycroft knew he didn't deserve this level of loyalty. He hoped it was in part also driven by disgust at Cartmere's behaviour and crimes?

'You're doing this, risking all this, your career, a criminal record, to save Sherlock?'

'No, Mycroft, I am not. I am risking it to save you, and to ensure no victim ends up in prison for taking revenge. Sherlock being locked up will destroy you and I don't want to see someone I care about - more than a little - suffer when they have suffered enough. But before you thank me, you might want to listen to what else I have to say. 

‘I can't know for sure the nature of your relationship with your brother, Mycroft, but I'd take a pretty good guess and say that it's sexual. I don't know how long it's been going on - I bloody well hope not long - but I'm going to tell you here and now, that I think it needs to stop. And I'm not saying that because I'm jealous. I am jealous, of course, but I would be of any partner you had! I'm saying it because I think the two of you are mistaking desire and mutual need for the kind of deep abiding love that could keep your relationship from self-destructing in the future.' 

Mycroft cocked his head, his face pale. 

'Is this your price, Greg? You release Sherlock, without charge and also raise no charges against me for incest, but on condition that I break off my “alleged” sexual relationship with him?'

Greg shook his head. 

'Nope. Not that. I'm not that kind of a bloke and anyway, I don't have the right. It's not my place to make that demand. I think, though, that it's something you should ask of yourself. Sherlock can't heal while you wrap him in binds, however silken and never let him fly free. You know the saying. If you love somebody, set them free. If they are yours, they will return. And if they don't, they were never really yours at all.'

...............

Mycroft turned his face away. 

'I... I am enormously indebted to you, Gregory. I think, in recognition of that, it is only fair to stop being opaque with you. My brother and I are indeed lovers, but have only been so after his sixteenth birthday. Which I know makes it no less unlawful. I recognise the enormous risks I am taking with him by participating in the relationship. And that I know that, someday, I will need to draw away and deny myself the joy and comfort of his complete love in order for him to fulfill himself as a man. 

‘But I need time, and I don't know how much I will need. One day I will. That day, Greg, is not today'.


	27. Home Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft share their views on Sherlock's well-being. And Mycroft is summoned by his superiors.

Greg went to leave. Before he did so, he turned and shook his head at Mycroft. 

'It's wrong, Mycroft. I know it's bloody wrong and I think you do too. Bear in mind, it may not be your decision, if you don't end it yourself. Sherlock will change as he grows. He's too young, too isolated. Why do you think further isolation will help him?'

Mycroft wanted to make Greg understand, had to make him understand…no one did, not really. 

'He's frightened, Greg. Of his own body, of his ability to make normal connections with people, with potential partners. He's scared that anyone he becomes involved with could turn out to be a monster. He wanted to experience love - and sex - with someone he trust, and the only person in this world he trusts is me.'

Greg shook his head again. 

'You can justify it however you want, Mycroft. But do you really think that what you’re doing is anything other than papering over cracks, cracks that will only become wider until Sherlock actually works properly through it, through what happened to him? That needs time, and help. The veneer of normality you provide him with is a short term fix, and long term I believe it will fuck him up. Can't you see that?

‘If Sherlock finds it hard to trust others, help him to trust. Don't just accept it as a given. When Sherlock says he wants you to do that stuff with him, isn't he just saying that he's scared of other people and doesn't know how to deal with that?’

Mycroft hummed. 

'It's a gamble, however, isn't it Greg? Refuse him, and I truly believe he might not make it long enough to see that long term future. Or, do as I have done, indulge him and hope that he can work through it? What would you have me do, else?’

'To be honest, just about anything. Not shag your brother. And what about you, though, Mycroft? What are your feelings for him? Obviously physical attraction, though I can't believe I'm saying that about your own brother, it's so messed up! Do you love him, more than as a brother? And if so, will you bear it when - and it is when - he rejects you?'

Mycroft seemed wrong-footed, unusually.

'I. I – ah – I am unsure of the answer to that question. You have to understand, Greg, how isolated we have been growing up. And then Sherlock was so ill and I was desperate. I couldn't refuse him anything, anymore. And I still can't.'

Mycroft's voice shook, finally cracking the impassive mask. That broke Greg. 

‘I know. I know. No one thinks that you don't love him, Mycroft. No one cares about him more than you do, I know that. This is just about how that love is expressed, OK? And how your relationship with him can be sustainable.’

Greg couldn't hold back at that point and impulsively leaned in and grasped Mycroft around his chest in a bear hug. It wasn't sexual, but something that spoke silently of something deep. Mycroft felt startled for a moment, but then relaxed. Greg looked up at him and after some moments found himself fixated on Mycroft's lips, thin and austere like the man himself. 

It might not have been originally sexual in intention, but the feeling of Greg's very fit body pressed up against him was inescapably arousing. Greg Lestrade was the polar opposite of Sherlock. Where his brother was all bones and sinew, nervous energy and pale temper, Greg was a muscular, bronze body of mental and physical strength and balance. He was fucking sexy, in an open, positive way. Not difficult. Not complicated and conflicted. Not fragile.

Mycroft didn't feel aware of moving closer, but his gaze locked with Greg's and he must have, because his lips were touching Greg's. Just a small brush, at first, but then suddenly it was fierce and demanding and Greg's hand was palming him through his clothes as Greg's tongue pushed into his mouth. 

Mycroft pulled away after a few seconds, needing to take a breath. He gave Greg a rueful look. 

'I think my situation is delicate and complicated enough as things stand, would you not say, Greg?'

Greg nodded. He couldn't believe he'd just done that, just kissed Mycroft Holmes.

'I agree. But remember that the complexity is within your power to untangle. If you can do it, well, I'm gonna be waiting for you. Today won't be repeated, it's your move now.' 

Mycroft said no more, simply left the room. What was there to say? 

Greg left, and with him, certainty and safety left too. 

.............

 

He heard nothing more from Greg that day and was released from hospital after tests on his lung function and dressings on his minor wounds. He took a black cab to Finchley Road. 

On the way he rang the police station where Sherlock had been held, and was told he was no longer under arrest but was providing “detailed statements as a witness to the death of Lord Cartmere”. Statements dictated by one G Lestrade, Mycroft mused, rolling the name over in his mouth. 

Greg confused him. With Sherlock there was only black and white, certainty of desire and love, with the only hindrance the law, society's views and Sherlock's age. With Greg it was different. With Sherlock, Mycroft was in control. He decided if they fucked, when they fucked and it was he who fucked Sherlock. With Greg? He wasn't sure. Greg came with a big neon sign saying 'silverback, top of the food chain, back off and know your place'. Even Greg's openness about his feelings for Mycroft told of his confidence. Greg knew he might be rejected, but he also knew that rejection would not dent his confidence in himself as a man, a dominant man. 

Mycroft found that he was hard and cursed ripely. 

.................

He turned his attention to the case. How had Cartmere known about Sherlock and him? It didn't make sense? There were only two possibilities, he eventually concluded as the cab drew up at the flat. Either, Cartmere was bugging their flat (or at least had access to such footage obtained from others), or someone else already knew about it and had disclosed it to Anthony at some point. Mycroft didn't think it was just a lucky guess. Cartmere must have suspected that an invitation chez Holmes was at least possibly a trap and so must have regarded his information as copper-bottomed. 

And what about Cartmere's two accomplices? And the drug dealer who enticed Sherlock into their clutches? He had no answers for these right now and for the first time wished that Sherlock had not been so... Decisive... In his response. Mycroft had intended to extract every single piece of information about Cartmere before he disposed of him, but hadn't had the chance, thanks to Sherlock's mental control snapping. 'Understandable but unfortunate, just the same', he murmured. 

There was a message on the answerphone on his mobile. He wanted to sweep the flat for bugs, but instead having listened to it, he suspected he no longer needed to. He was being summoned to his office. Several senior officials had asked 'for a few minutes of Holmes' time.' Mycroft didn't know if that meant official censure for his unauthorised activities, summary dismissal, or removal by large armed men for liquidation in the basement, but he hoped he would get some answers about Cartmere. 

He told the cab to wait and entered the flat, walking to the bedroom. It still smelled of his brother and of sex and Mycroft hovered in the doorway for a moment, the memories assailing his senses and threatening to overwhelm him once more.

Then he walked up to the mirror and took his hair comb from the small shelf underneath. He combed his hair into neat subservience and checked his lapels for any small flecks of fluff or stray hairs. 

Once satisfied, he looked around one last time, and left, getting back into the cab and giving directions for his office.


	28. An Ultimatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is summoned to SIS HQ, to answer for his unofficial operations. By the end, his options have run out.

Mycroft could sense the change in atmosphere, almost as soon as he entered the airlock that provided a discrete security protocol separating the wing of the building that he worked in from the other five. No one knew what went on in the other sections, (unless they were so senior that they lived their lives in government houses, guarded by government security and travelled in government cars).

Mycroft wasn't anywhere near that level yet. So East Two Wing was his world. And now that world looked very slightly different. There was always a decent complement of staffers working at any hour of the day or night; it wasn't just timelines you had to cater for, the element of surprise was a favourite of those intent on causing trouble. The small hours here were the best time to catch your prize terrorist. And yet, through all the corridors and rooms he travelled, to reach his small, immaculately tidy office on the third floor, he saw no one. Which he knew was not a Good Thing.

It meant he was almost expecting the unwelcome sight of the small reception committee that awaited him when he opened his office door. He was welcomed politely, given and moment to put down his attaché case and then politely informed that this was an "informal chat" but might lead to further investigation and action. He was courteously reminded of the relevant clauses of the Official Secrets Act which he had signed, as well as the Code of Ethics and Personal Conduct for all Personnel employed by HM Government Security Services. He didn't need the reminders, he could have quoted the damn things verbatim.

Mycroft sighed. He wished they would get to the point. He wanted to make sure Sherlock was all right, to take Sherlock home. But he buttoned his lip, since with Cartmere dead this was one of, if not the, only chance to find out anything about Cartmere's role. And since there was a possibility that he might not actually be going home at all, playing along seemed the best option.

...........

 

His three inquisitors started by highlighting the completely unofficial nature of his activities in relation to Cartmere, compounded by the fact that he had been formally warned off the Subject previously and had chosen to pursue him despite this. 

He was told in no uncertain terms that “whatever guff the police report eventually came up with”, they three were “in no doubt that either Mycroft or Sherlock had intentionally killed Anthony Cartmere. Which was very inconvenient as well as being seriously detrimental to the nation's security”. 

Mycroft was tired of this. His resolve to kow-tow evaporated.

'Why is it detrimental? No one would tell me. Not senior enough, I was told. Well, the subject is dead now, so come on then chaps, tell me now.'  
The most senior of the group cleared his throat.

 

'Anthony Cartmere is, or rather was, a longstanding and exceptional agent operating throughout Asia but especially in India. He was able to use his charity work to gain access to a number of key personnel and specific information of value to this nation.

In particular, Cartmere served on the board of the street children’s home in Mumbai with the head of the country’s armed forces. This gave him a unique opportunity at fundraisers, meetings, social events and the like, to be privy to some valuable information about military plans, especially in relation to India’s and her rival neighbour Pakistan and their respective nuclear programmes.’

Mycroft smiled a thin cold smile.

'It wasn't only cover for espionage to benefit Britain, though, was it? Did the end justify the means for you? How many complaints, exactly, to the nearest ten, were received in relation to alleged sexual abuse of children at the home? Say over the last fifteen years? How old was the youngest complainant? Three or four I'd guess? Because below that age, they don't have the vocabulary to tell you, do they? I'm no betting man, but shall we say that someone, somewhere in this building has a couple of overflowing ring binders that don't exist, full of abuse cases claimed by children who might as well not exist for the amount of protection they receive from the people who claimed to protect them? Tell me I'm wrong, if you can. 

There was a slight rearranging of papers. 

‘Mycroft, Mycroft. Calm yourself. I understand this is a particularly…sensitive topic for you. But you really overestimate the efficiency of the record keeping. I'm sure it's not nearly that bad. There aren't reliable figures... records incomplete... procedures now stringent... positive welfare feedback in latest review… ‘

Mycroft tuned out. He turned to the other point. Or, rather, was about to - to ask if they could explain how Cartmere knew information about his personal life that no one knew - but they beat him to it. 

...................

'Mycroft, this is a matter of some delicacy but you are fully aware of your responsibilities as a security officer in the service to avoid any hint, any suggestion, of criminality or scandalous conduct which would draw attention to you or invite the possibility of blackmail. 

‘There's no delicate way to phrase this. Having sexual intercourse with your younger brother, who is not only barely of age but also presents as a potentially unstable individual according to our assessment, is about as unwise a course of action as I can imagine.'

Mycroft stared at them. He wouldn't deny it. He couldn't. But they knew. They knew and Cartmere knew. That couldn't be a coincidence?

'It was you. You bugged the flat. You warned Cartmere. Told him to stay away from the Holmes brothers, but that if we came after him, to blackmail me using that information. But Cartmere couldn't resist coming to see Sherlock, could he? He lied, you know, Anthony. Just before the accident that killed him. He said he didn't like to indulge with a sexual contact more than once. But he did, didn't he, because he couldn't stay away from Sherlock.' 

'We cannot comment on operational matters, Mycroft, as you know. Suffice it to say that Cartmere appears not to be the only one who "couldn't stay away from Sherlock".'

Mycroft didn't flinch or look away. 

'I love him. I love him and I care for him. He's all that matters. I will protect him with my life and nothing will change that.'

‘Spare us the violins, Mycroft. He matters more than your career? Do you really want to return to your lunatic mother's house, or go cap in hand to your delightful father, if the IRS haven't already seized every penny from the scoundrel? Really? Lose your promising career? We both know you are about the brightest we have in the junior ranks, and that is the only reason you are being granted this discussion.'

'What are you saying?'

'We are saying, Holmes, that you need to disentangle yourself right now from your illegal sexual relationship with your brother. We think he needs help and being buggered by you is not a form of recognised therapy, even if he thinks it is!

'We think you yourself, Mycroft would benefit from returning to pure research for a while. A PhD perhaps. Cambridge again. It will make a new man of you, Holmes. Give you distance, perspective. You'll return in three or four years time, with a clean slate and a valuable specialism that will hasten your rise. You are - you were - very highly thought of. Potential for the very top.'

..................

Mycroft looked at the polished wood of the desk. A tiny spider was climbing up the inside of one of the pedestals, but kept falling back halfway down every time it got to an intricate band of carving near the top. He knew how the spider felt.

'There's a "but" isn't there? What happens if I don't agree to these terms?'

He felt sick to his stomach. They were asking him to leave Sherlock. Were they even asking? It didn't sound like there was a question here.

The man smiled for the first time in the meeting, a wolfish baring of teeth.

'We have to uphold the law of the land, Mycroft. 

‘If you don't take up the offer, you will be at minimum dismissed from the Service for disloyalty, prosecuted for sexual assault on your brother and he will, never mind what the Met have cooked up, be charged with the murder of Anthony Cartmere and likely convicted, we have a very good team you know, they do this sort of thing all the time, which will mean a mandatory life sentence. Probably serving a minimum of twenty to twenty-five, perhaps fifteen with good behaviour. Should be long enough for you to learn to keep your dick in your boxers, eh?' 

But he was speaking to an absent addresses. Mycroft had left before he finished the sentence. The door banged shut, then swing back.

…………..

They let him go. He hadn't said no. Which meant he was going to say yes. He just hadn't realised it yet. Shaking their heads, they gatherede up their papers, and left the office, the lights automatically switching off a few minutes later.


	29. Hollow souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have coffee. Mycroft and Sherlock have "coffee". 
> 
> It's a smutty one, boys and girls. Enjoy!

Chapter 29 

No notes were made of the meeting. None were needed. 

Mycroft called Greg when he left the office. They met in a coffee shop in Soho, dark and cramped but smelling of expresso and assignations. Greg couldn't believe the change in Mycroft's demeanour, subdued and strained. 

'I can let Sherlock go, Greg, if I have to, though it will break me. But him going to prison? He would never endure it. Especially if the circumstances, all of them, became known.'

Greg didn't know what to say. He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking over and over, staring despondently into the wide-bowled cup. He wanted Mycroft, badly, oh yes, but not like this. Not second-best, also-ran, consolation prize. It was hateful, and he hated it. His shoe kicked against the chair leg in frustration. Maybe Mycroft noticed that. Maybe he wanted him to. 

There was, in fact, nothing to say, not really, at least nothing that would help, because the shitty thing was that Mycroft was right. Eventually, that fact was acknowledged in physical form by Greg standing and brushing the crumbs of his uneaten, messed about with honey cake off his suit trousers. His suit looked cheap against Mycroft’s perfect tailoring, bought for hardwearing qualities and crease resistance, rather than the burnished soft quality of the cloth that clung to a body he felt should be his.

When he left the cafe, he glanced back through the glass. Mycroft was still sitting there, oblivious to the chattering of the rest of the customers, staring down at the paper napkin he had folded into a tiny, pointless wad.

...............

Mycroft, when he eventually left the cafe, walked all the way back to Finchley Road and arrived, tired, just as a police car pulled up and his brother stepped out. As if in unspoken agreement, neither said a word until they were inside the second front door, the one at the top of the flight of stairs. Each could hear the other breathing. 

As soon as they were inside, they listened for the police car pulling away and then Mycroft's hands were inside Sherlock's black jeans. He could feel the rough fabric weave grazing the back of his fingers and the contrast with the silky skin of his brother's cock was instantly arousing. Sherlock was hard, already, the bloody teenager, like Duracell batteries, the ever ready penis of vital youth. Mycroft wasn't old, of course, not at all, but Sherlock was so terrifyingly young and completely alive. Mycroft wasn't sure if he'd ever been that alive. 

He pushed Sherlock back against the front door of the flat, hard. He could see the gleam of delight in Sherlock's sea-bright eyes. Dark shadows framed his eyes, only accentuating the otherworldly paleness of his irises. Mycroft laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder and nuzzled his neck. And then bit, hard. 

Sherlock yelped. But Mycroft's hand felt another story - Sherlock's cock harder than ever and pre-come just starting to make it moist. And now Sherlock was dropping to his knees, his hair falling across his forehead as he twisted open buttons and unzipped the fly of Mycroft's trousers. His actions were clumsy and hurried, almost desperate. How appropriate, Mycroft thought. Desperate. That sums it up for both of us. He almost laughed.

Sherlock's lips were on him now, on his length, taking him in, suckling at the tip and hollowing his cheeks. It was rougher than Mycroft was used to, there was normally a certain... Finesse. This was sloppy and noisy and dirty and the sight of his brother worshipping at his dick was building a low throbbing in his groin that he knew was a sign that he wouldn't last long. 

Mycroft had never pulled anyone by their hair in his life, but he did it now. He wrenched Sherlock off him and as his brother straightened up, stumbling, Mycroft span him, so that Sherlock was now facing the door. 

'Drop your trousers. And your pants. Quickly.'

Sherlock scrambled to comply, hands shaking. Mycroft kicked his own lower clothing free from around his legs and removed the rest. Sherlock followed suit. Naked now, Mycroft ran a hand down Sherlock's back, from his shoulder to his waist and down to his slim hips. Then he crouched and licked and then bit each buttock, the flesh yielding away from his teeth until he increased the pressure to the point that the metallic taste of blood hit him and his teeth were stained red. Sherlock buried his head in his arm, now crossed in front of his face and moaned, very quietly. Mycroft licked the wounds, worrying at them with his tongue and Sherlock carried on moaning. Louder now.

It was unimaginable to think of a life without him - without this. Long hours in libraries smelling of beeswax and social inadequacy, the world outside feeling like a million miles away. Instead of skilfully inserting agents into failed states undetected, or turning extremists into British assets, he would be undertaking advanced cryptographic research, with a sideline in navigational instrumentation and artificial weather systems. And there would be nothing of this. Never again. The hollowness that brought was overwhelming.

As he lay Sherlock down on the floor, he saw his brother's eyes shine with the sort of worshipping love that Mycroft had never thought he was destined to experience from anyone.. And as his knee, aided by his generously shining cock nudged his brother's legs apart, he knew he had lied to Lestrade. It didn't matter how bad this was, how unwise in the long run, how indisputably harmful. He had no idea how he was going to end it. Or even how he would tell Sherlock that he planned to.

He pressed Sherlock's legs up and back, his brother gazing at him rapt and quiet. Mycroft bent his own head low, now, and his tongue licked a slow trail from the tip of Sherlock's cock, lying stiff and hard against his stomach, long and gently curved down over his balls and back until he came to the small perfect rosette of his entrance. 

There was no hair there to catch his progress. Sherlock had a dislike of body hair which a psychologist would no doubt make much of in their notes. It was fine on others, Sherlock said, but not for him. As soon as he'd started to develop a fine covering of pubic hair as a teenager, it came off. Before the attack, he might let it grow a little before removal. Afterwards, nothing was permitted to appear before it was shaved or waxed away in denial.

Sherlock was sighing now, his breath coming in shallow breaths. Mycroft gently probed with his tongue, and a squeak sounded. Mycroft smiled and pressed on, his tongue exploring and demanding reaction, which it certainly got, judging by his occasional touches to Sherlock's hair-trigger erection. 

When he felt Sherlock was open enough not to be injured, but still tighter than usual, he turned his brother onto his front, hips propped on a cushion and another under his arms. 

He played, still, fucking the cleft of Sherlock's wounded arse cheeks with his tongue spreading saliva liberally down the length of his crack and making his brother beg in a reedy high voice for him to “get inside him”. 

Sherlock fidgeted restlessly, and Mycroft’s hand pressed down on his backbone.

'Calm, Lockie. Settle. Let me...just let me.'

Sherlock nodded and sank his head down onto his arms, biting into his own flesh now. And Mycroft was satisfied and continued the motion, torturing with expectation and desire. 

At last, he relented and grabbed Sherlock by the hips, positioning himself and then pushing inside and in and in with an almost brutal thrust that robbed the breath from his lungs and made Sherlock cry out with the extremity of sensation - It was like someone had thumped him inside, then filled him with hot-forged steel and branded him there for good.

Mycroft lasted precisely ninety-seven seconds before he came, uncontrolled and explosively and Sherlock contracted around him only seconds later, spilling himself in pulses of surprising velocity and volume. 

They were both spent. 

Mycroft laid his brother down onto the sofa and covered his sweat slicked body with a soft fleece blanket. Then he walked, still entirely naked, into the kitchen and stared up to where he now suspected that some form of surveillance equipment was installed. 

He spoke quietly, so that Sherlock did not hear. 

'Whatever happens next, however much you think that you have won, because I am doing as you are blackmailing me to do, be under no illusion. Whatever happens to my brother, I hold you entirely responsible. And in the end, should be both survive that long, we will not be separated, not by you, not by anyone.'

He fetched a flannel, ran the tap until the water ran hot and then took the soft warm cloth back to the living room and spent the next ten minutes or more cleaning and soothing his brother, not only with the flannel but also with ointment for his wounds. Sherlock was sound asleep by the time he finished, and afterwards Mycroft sat in his armchair, eyes fixed on his brother and the small snuffles he made as he shifted in his sleep. 

He wished he could stay here forever, watching Sherlock, sex-sleepy and satiate, but he knew that when Sherlock woke, however long that took, he would be leaving and he had no idea when they would meet again. The grief that accompanied that knowledge - the still raging turmoil of "I must", "I cannot", "I must" was a physical pain that clutched at him and tore at his insides. 

It would never be all right.


	30. Cold Cambridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tells Sherlock they must end their relationship, and his brother takes it badly. Mycroft also has a difficult meeting with his mother. Sherlock absconds. Mycroft tries to settle back into Cambridge life, but then he gets a phone call...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be publishing the last 3 chapters this week! One a day! One today, one tomorrow and one on Friday! 
> 
> The reason for this is that I'm away next week and don't want to miss any weekly publishing, so I'm giving it all to you early! 
> 
> I really hope you like the last chapters 
> 
> Teaandcakesxxxxx

Morning came too soon. Sherlock rose, visibly slightly stiff as he walked naked to the bathroom. His soft cock hung quietly, swinging slightly as he moved. Mycroft feigned sleep until he heard the shower pelting his brother with cleansing spray. He needed to shower too, but it would have to wait until later. He had to tell Sherlock. He didn't know how long the security services would give him to arrange his affairs and to leave London. He'd always loved Cambridge, but now the prospect of the long lonely drive to the flatlands, the cold winds and the huge skies, couldn't have been more unwelcome. He shivered, even thinking of it. It felt like being sent to Siberia, all otherness and chill.

There were ridiculous practicalities that now seemed completely absurd. Carpet was supposed to be arriving for the hallway and stairs. Carpet, for God’s sake. When had that seemed important enough to arrange. He supposed he would have to cancel it. Or maybe he should let them come. Maybe he should keep the flat? Sherlock would need somewhere once he left school. Assuming he could be persuaded to go back to school, that was...

Sherlock was rubbing his hair with a towel, another (thin, white) knotted around his waist as he padded into the kitchen. Mycroft was gazing out over the tightly packed rooftops through the window. It needed cleaning, too. Like him.

Arms encircled his waist from behind and a damp tousled head lay on his shoulder. 

Mycroft sighed, the sound suffused with regret.

'Sherlock, I...'

Sherlock nuzzled deeply and snuffled at his neck and a wave of grief hit Mycroft, making him stagger slightly. He had known this would be difficult, but not that it would be like this, this close to him, this real.

He breathed out through his nose. In, out. In, out. His pulse ignored his efforts.

'Sherlock, do you think you could sit down? I... I have something that I need to say.'

Sherlock looked first confused, then wary, then frightened.

'Why?'

'Just sit. Please.' Mycroft’s voice wavered slightly and Sherlock gave him a sharp look. 

Sherlock sat. He was careful when he did so and didn't touch the back bar of the chair and Mycroft felt guilty. Last night had been about his own need for something he could seal away deep in his heart and not open up, but know that it was there. A memory to feast on, but never touch. But it wasn't fair to Sherlock, he could see that. So many things were not. 

...............

Sherlock was chewing the end of an unconvincing long-life croissant. It was very elastic and very tough. There were small flakes peppering his damp lips. His hair was drying, but still wild. He looked up at Mycroft through black curled lashes. Blinked.

Mycroft intended to speak slowly and clearly, but instead the words came out in a rapid and horrible spew.

'I believe that it is best that we do not continue with our relationship. You need to return to school to finish your A levels and I have decided to go back to Cambridge, on sabbatical from front line duties...'

He was going to explain the nature of the research, the benefits of the new arrangement for them both, and various practical details that he had decided, but there was little point. Sherlock had snatched up his hold-all, burst out of the room and pulled on the nearest outfit and the next thing Mycroft heard was the sound of the front door. By rights, it should have been a slam, like all good dramas, but instead there was a quiet click. 

"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper." That was a poem. He would have been less worried if Sherlock had banged the door. 

Sherlock didn't come back. Not then, and not that day, nor the next.

..........

Mummy summoned him, just to make everything really go to hell and Mycroft duly attended her court. The house was still being renovated after the fire, but one wing was habitable, and she nested there like a scrawny bird, surrounded by her treasures. 

He couldn't meet her gaze, as she poured tea from the Meissen and offered him coffee eclairs. But he was aware they would have to discuss the fact that she knew now, knew her elder son had been screwing her younger son, with all the potential for explosive familial fracture that entailed. 

She was angry, really angry, he could tell and her hands shook as she poured their tea. Though it wasn't quite as Mycroft anticipated when she finally spoke. 

'I feel to blame in many ways. I know I've been no damned good as a parent, just letting you and Sherlock run wild. I thought you would be creative and successful. And look where that's got us? You rusticated from the intelligence services and Sherlock run off to God knows where. Myc, for pity’s sake. I can't pretend to understand why you… Why he… How did you really ever think that doing that was a way of helping?'

She sounded sad rather than angry and Mycroft hated it, so used to being the model son, star pupil, for the first time ever, he had let her down. It was much worse, sitting there, than he had expected. He did not answer her question, just shook his head. 

The silence was louder than a scream, the distance between the two widened to a degree neither would have thought possible. He would not apologise and could not explain or excuse. She could not understand and struggled to forgive because of it.

But she surprised him a few moments later. 

'I deeply regret you and Sherlock becoming involved - like that - it just makes things complicated and he doesn't need complicated, really he doesn't, quite the opposite. I'm very disappointed in you. I could see that he was happy, happier than I'd ever seen him, however. So if you had told me, or I'd found out, but no one else knew, I would have let it carry on. Nothing matters to me more than his and your happiness. I don't care what others think. It's not the Holmes way to do so. But I am angry with you Mycroft, really bloody furious! Because having taken this step, which if it was to happen at all must be for good and for keeps, you told him that it was ending. 

‘How could you be so cruel, Mycroft? How? Honestly, I could report you to the police myself, I'm so livid!’

Mycroft looked shocked. He'd expected the incest to be the biggest issue, but it turned out it was his perceived betrayal and abandonment of Sherlock that was the red line for his mother. It slightly did his head in. 

'How did you know about that?'

'Because he came here and told me, the day you broke it to him! He came here and he cried and cried until he was sick. I cleaned him up and I put him to bed and made him malted milk and the next morning, when I got up, he had gone, along with his clothes and half the larder contents and some of my cheaper jewellery. I don't know where he went or what he's doing, but you know what happened last time he was roaming the streets, Myc? What if he runs out of money? What if Cartmere's friends find him?'

Then she started crying. 

Mycroft came over to her chair and knelt beside it. 

'The details are classified as to why. I can't tell you. But please, please know that it was a good reason. The best. And it was the only way.'

He could tell she wasn't convinced and when he left later, he wondered when, or if, he would receive another invitation to his family home. 

.....................

The trail went cold very quickly. No one had seen or heard from Sherlock. He had walked out of the Holmes family home and simply seemed to have vanished.

That week, Mycroft spent his days at work, his evenings walking the London streets in the worst neighbourhoods, asking about Sherlock, and his nights lying awake listening to the traffic noise on the Finchley Road, wondering where Sherlock was sleeping tonight. 

"Are you safe? Let me know you are safe", he whispered into the darkness, but there was no one there to hear. Just the sounds of the roller shutters signalling the end of another long shift at the eight til late Asian mini mart opposite. 

The lack of sleep and lack of progress was affecting his work, he knew and he had to jump before he was pushed. If he went now, his reputation would remain high. Wait and he would be forced out dishonourably for gross misconduct regarding unofficial operations and breaches of core personal standards. 

Mummy cried, as if he was going to melt away like Sherlock had. Would that he had that luxury. Mycroft loved his brother, more than life itself, but he knew that Sherlock would always be the impulsive one, the one who would storm out, run away, hurt himself, be hurt. He, Mycroft, was doomed to act otherwise: to stay, endure and not to yield. A sturdy oak, to Sherlock's showy but transient apple blossom.  
,  
..................

Within a week, Mycroft was back at Peterhouse, gazing out onto the perfect straight stripes of the lawns in Front quad, as his heart slowly shattered. 

It was right that it did so, because as it broke into shards of crystal, Sherlock was embarking on his wild descent into the cold ice-white oblivion of an increasingly serious drug habit. As Mycroft gazed on the timeless cool green of perfect grass, his erstwhile lover was pawning his mother's jewellery for money, which he would then promptly be relieved of by being mugged as he left the cash converter shop.

By week two, Sherlock was on his knees in five star hotels, sucking off rich foreigners who tipped the concierge handsomely to supply them with 'company'. None of it went on food, that was why there were skips behind supermarkets, all of it went on drugs. Why not? Why not. 

The Finchley Road flat stood empty most of the time, Sherlock coming back only to shoot up or crash out. It was no longer the brothers sanctuary. The hidden surveillance cameras were ripped out and anything of value was either sold for drugs or smashed by Sherlock.

..........

The next Mycroft heard from his brother, or, rather, of his brother, was five long worrying weeks later. 

He was hurrying to meet with a brilliant nuclear scientist newly arrived from an unnamed jurisdiction and didn't want to be late. He nearly decided to collect his post later, but at the last second he changed his mind and ducked into the porter's lodge and asked for "pigeonhole number fifty-seven, Holmes, M".

Daffyd, the senior porter, survivor of the Sir Galahad in the Falklands conflict, burned arms and legs his visible legacy, handed over a small bundle. There were the usual suspects; wonky fliers for ghastly social events, reminders from the University Proctors about "standards of behaviour outside Exam Schools", a leaflet advertising the new late night club near the railway station, and a number of those stiff card, gold-edged copperplate invitations which informed one that so and so tutor or friend wished to entertain you with a garden party ("he hopes some ladies will wear Hats") or a drinks reception ("dress for the Arctic, the heating's fucked again") or the wedding of "Xander and Clemency Hyphen-No Chin".

There was one more item, though. It nearly went unnoticed but Mycroft missed nothing. It was a scrap of paper, the ones the porters used for telephone messages, in the days before mobiles and Internet were widely available.

"Mr Mycroft Holmes please ring asap Univ Coll Hosp London and ask for ward B8. ASAP". This last was underlined heavily. There followed a telephone number. Nothing else. The message was time stamped four hours earlier. 

He asked to use the Lodge phone and Daffyd dragged it over to him to use on the counter at the quieter back corner of the Lodge. Mycroft took a deep breath and dialled. It could only be Sherlock.


	31. The smell of love and antiseptic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft receives an urgent telephone call.

The telephone receptionist Mycroft spoke to might have sounded bored (and clearly had an urgent need for a tonsillectomy), but she was efficient and managed to successfully transfer his call to the specified ward. 

A male voice answered the phone and Mycroft explained he'd received a message to ring the ward.. 

'Mr Holmes? Thank you for calling us back. It's about your brother, Sherlock.'

As he expected and feared.

'Is he all right? Why is he there?'

Mycroft couldn't stop his heart from racing, sounding so loud that he wondered if 'Ian' could hear it from his end of the telephone line. 

'He's… Well. Were you aware of your brother's drug habit, Mr Holmes?'

So there was his worst fear confirmed, short of his brother having encountered the two rapists. At least he was alive - though Mycroft then realised he hadn't actually heard the man confirm it.

'Yes, I am. Is Sherlock alive?' His voice sounded far away as he said it. As if that would help should the answer come back negative.

'Yes. Stable. Poorly, but stable now. He should be ok - physically that is. He's very distressed though and is in something of a chaotic state psychologically. He keeps calling for you. Would you be able to come?'

By this time, Mycroft had already dropped the receiver on the porters' desk and run out of the Lodge back across the quad. Daffyd picked up the receiver and announced in the lugubrious and sombre tone deployed by all good college porters, that 'Mr Mycroft Holmes will be proceeding to the hospital with all good haste' and 'Thank you for calling.'

............

Mycroft didn't have a car in Cambridge and the rail timetable was hardly over-endowed with services; at least, not when you really needed them. After chewing his cheek for a moment, he locked up his set of rooms and headed back to the Lodge. Then, after another brief phone call, he stood outside the giant studded wooden doors, waiting impatiently. After only about ten minutes, a marked Thames Valley police car pulled up. Two police officers got out. 

'This is most kind.'

'You're lucky your Lestrade guy helped us out big time on busting that human trafficking ring near Swindon a few months back. He was due a good turn from us.'

'I am extremely grateful to him and to you.' 

The two coppers sensed this patrician young man did not really want to talk, and so, once all were in and belted up, they turned up the radio, took it in turns to hold first the pasty, then the doughnuts, then the coffee chaser. Then they set to, eating up the miles down the M40. 

They switched on the "blues and twos" twice. Once, was as they got onto the M25 coming off the M40, using them to barge their way through the heavy traffic in the roadworks. The second occasion was much closer to their destination and the lights and sirens got them through a backed-up box junction. Still, it was slow progress in town, with heavy traffic, lots of bikes and dozy pedestrians. 

At last, they were there. Mycroft unfolded himself from the back and shook their hands, which he found to his distaste to be still greasy and sticky from their drive-time picnic. 

'Relative is it?', one asked. Trying to be pally. 

'Yes. My brother.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'I… I don't know. I'm sorry, I really must go to him. Thank you very much indeed, once again.'

And Mycroft strode off, into the thronging hospital lobby. The policemen shrugged, and pulled out matching Twix bars. 

..............

He found Sherlock eventually, along numerous corridors and swing doors, twisting and turning. His brother was in a small room that seemed an afterthought, perhaps not intended for patients at all, the window looking out only onto a light well and its neighbours only the laundry and a catering lobby. But it was quiet and it was a single room; and to be frank, Sherlock wasn't in much state to express an opinion either way on the bed and board. 

Mycroft walked into the room after asking directions from the nurse in the lift lobby who seemed to be the gatekeeper for the whole floor. 

His brother was sleeping, although Mycroft's observations led him to conclude that the state was induced by medical narcotics, rather than naturally occurring. Sherlock looked as if he hadn't encountered a decent meal since the night Mycroft told him he was leaving for Cambridge. His arms told their own story, too. Mycroft didn't need to pick up the clipboard of medical notes to know what Sherlock had been consuming. Although he read it anyway and was surprised to see some of the more colourful entries on the narcotic spectrum as well as the expected heroin and coke. Speed, E, these weren't normally Sherlock's style. 

Sherlock's wrists were secured by restraints, which made Mycroft grieve. He hoped that there had been good reason to justify their use - and then hoped that actually, there hadn't been, that it had been a silly overreaction, that his brother wasn't actually that bad. 

..............

Sherlock was less deeply asleep than Mycroft feared, the staff having run down the sedation somewhat, once they knew Mycroft was definitely on his way. 

'It's you.'

Mycroft had been reading a pamphlet about hospital acquired infections with spectacularly lurid illustrations of the possible effects. He span around. Sherlock looked frail and a wet streak ran down his cheek as a teardrop trickled down. 

He was quiet and calm now, with Mycroft there. His eyes, though, kept darting around the room and to the door. "As if he were afraid", Mycroft thought and the idea of Sherlock being afraid again, alone again, hurt on the streets again by... people, just made him want to throw up. 

He didn't know what to say. So all he managed was; 

'Oh, Sherlock, my… oh Sherlock.'

Several minutes passed with no more words than these, the brothers just regarding each other with equal amounts of pain, relief and anger.

A far-off fire alarm test broke the impasse. Mycroft got up.

He pressed the buzzer and when the nurse came, he asked her to get authorisation to remove Sherlock's restraints, at least while he was present. He couldn't completely guarantee his brother's behaviour if he was called away, he knew.

Reading the medical notes had not only given him a good idea of the disgusting array of drugs his brother had been shooting up or swallowing, but also that he had some injuries, bruising and abrasions, consistent with violent sexual activity. Mycroft had absolutely no idea if they had been acquired through consensual acts or not, but he found his relief at seeing his brother polluted by anger and frustration with him. He had to bite his lip, hard, to try to concentrate on the fact that Sherlock was physically in a poor state, probably still coming down and not likely to be able to handle a confrontation about his actions. 

A nurse popped her head around the door, to say that Sherlock's restraints needed to stay on until his consultant and the psychiatric team had assessed him, which would be the next morning. Mycroft didn't argue as she seemed to have expected, just nodded curtly. 

The time passed slowly. Like all hospital rooms, it was too hot and there was no fresh air. It was soporific and Mycroft was exhausted. Within an hour, Mycroft was sleeping in the chair, still dressed in the same overly pressed clothes he had worn all those hours ago in Cambridge. 

He dreamed vividly, of punting on the Cam on a bright June morning, with Sherlock in collarless shirt half unbuttoned and cream baggy flannels with braces. Sherlock was crawling forward, his curls flopping over his eyes, and Mycroft was admonishing him for risking upsetting the notoriously twitchy-balanced punt. Sherlock gripped his legs as Mycroft speared the river with his pole. Sherlock's mouth was damp from drinking pink champagne out of a bottle. Sherlock's hands cupped Mycroft's genitals thoughtfully, playing with his stiffening cock through his trousers.

He heard himself exclaim and he felt himself come, still clothed. It was sweet and glorious and he felt the tension drain from him. That didn't last because with impeccably terrible timing, the nurse came into the room, saw Mycroft start and jump to his feet and pretended not to notice either the dark stain on his trouser front, nor the fact that he had called out 'Sherlock!’ as he leapt up. 

The two events might be unconnected, after all. 

...............

The nurse brought the news that the consultant was on his way.


	32. Completing the circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter! 
> 
> Thankyou for all your lovely comments and kudos. 
> 
> Music for this fic is Will Young's album 85% Proof, especially 'Promise Me'
> 
> Tea x

Dr Hirn was brisk but kind. He took Mycroft away from Sherlock to talk to him, which made Sherlock cross, but enabled Mycroft and the doctor to speak freely. 

He told Mycroft in cool impassive style not only the catalogue of narcotics that Sherlock had consumed in one form or another, but also that "the people he was with" seemed to have been administering some extra drugs, perhaps to soften him up? A “concerned member of the public” had reported an assault going on and police had found Sherlock, though by that time not his acquaintances, back behind a restaurant kitchen just off Oxford Street. 

In respect of the main array of drugs, these was in his opinion, possibly even a somewhat haphazard suicide attempt. Did Mycroft know of any reason his brother might be depressed, to the extent of his having thoughts about taking his own life? 

Mycroft sighed. Where did one start.

'Just read his notes, Doctor Hirn. He has all the reason in the world.'

...........

Sherlock was allowed to leave the hospital a few days later, most of which Mycroft spent trying to ensure that social services would not take too deep an interest in Holmes family affairs. He persuaded them, using all his diplomatic charms, that Sherlock could come with him to Cambridge. They liked that idea: brotherly support, three good meals a day and the mental health team backup that, sadly, elite university cities already need to have in place.

The other task was trickier. Mycroft went to see his superiors in Vauxhall Cross. And told them in no uncertain terms that he was keeping to their stipulation about ceasing the sexual relationship with his brother, but that he was going to be living with Sherlock while he continued his research studies. Non-negotiable. If they didn't agree, he would submit a full and detailed confession to Lestrade that it was he, Mycroft, who had killed Lord Cartmere. Sherlock would still be free and SIS would lose their most talented young agent. 

They didn't like that, Mycroft playing them at their own game. But at the same time, they were trained to recognise and appreciate skill in playing the game. It was why they rated Mycroft, after all.

They would not agree to the idea in the form Mycroft suggested, but after a lengthy negotiation, a compromise was reached.. Eventually, contact was made with the admissions tutors at Christ's and it was concluded that Sherlock should be permitted to sit entrance exams despite being a year or so young and if as exceptional as he was described, would be admitted to study Chemistry. 

He would not, however, be permitted to live with his brother, nor could each of them enter each other's college and they must meet only in public places except for SIS facilities. 

'This will be monitored, Mycroft. Twenty-four seven. We understand you want to look after him and that he needs looking after and we will facilitate that. We have a house at Grantchester, one we use when someone needs a place to stay.' (Safe house, thought Mycroft. Very "Smiley"). 

'It is staffed round the clock and all rooms are monitored. And we do mean all, Holmes. Cameras, sound, the lot. You are welcome to meet there or stay there, when you need longer periods together. There is also medical backup, should it be required.'

............

 

Sherlock was pathetically grateful that he was going to be with Mycroft in Cambridge, but the detail of the conditions made him rage and tears followed. 

'Why am I being punished by you? Why can't we be flatmates? I don't understand why you won't fuck me any more, why you don't want me, have grown tired of me, but this is worse even than that! I don't see why we can't share a flat so I could see you, maybe share a bed, or maybe just a kiss sometimes. You don't know what it's like Mycroft, so lonely, just so fucking lonely. And my head... I didn't intend to do the drugs, but I got headaches and they were worse and worse, white lights and rainbows in my vision and I was convinced it was the tumour coming back and the drugs helped me forget it. And then those ones didn't work so well any more, so I took more and took some others, new ones, ones which were more trippy. That way, I could pretend all the pain in my head and the blinding lights were the drugs, and not the tumour...

'I need you by me, around me, covering my body and calming my mind. I NEED that Mycroft. Why must you be so cruel?'

And Mycroft could do nothing, but stand silently, holding a handkerchief to his brother's nose for him to blow into and give him tissues for his eyes and cheeks, glistening with tears. Unable to tell him the ultimatum that was keeping Sherlock free but breaking both their hearts. 

.............

 

They went, of course, up to their respective Colleges. Mycroft to his research, discovering a way of inciting the creation not only of rain clouds, but thunderstorms. It had been understood before, but not with anything like this degree of precision. Fantastically useful for peaceful purposes, ending drought in arid regions and saving millions of lives with the gift of clean sweet water, but terrifying as a weapon of war, raining down floods on your enemy like a vengeful deity. 

He took to carrying an umbrella to all his meetings, just to remind people of his power over the skies. 

Sherlock came up later, after a spell in a detox clinic which he described as 'dull'. He was unsurprisingly able to fly through the Chemistry entrance papers with ease, along with one on formal logic, two on early Anglo-Saxon linguistics and a whole sheaf of tests on Islamic calligraphy. None of these others was required, in reality, but he thought they might interest his examiners and it took his mind off drugs.

And so Cambridge life began. 

They met, weekly, at Grantchester, where the lawns rolled down to the river and they rubbed shoulders with a number of dissidents and spies, as well as a couple of people that the rest of the country confidently believed to be dead. Their meetings were polite, but the distance growing between them was greater every time they met. Sherlock hated Mycroft for his betrayal and carelessness with his heart. Mycroft hated Sherlock for being who he was and causing Mycroft to love him too much, always too much. Both of them stored away the memories of what had been between them in a bitter album in their Mind Palaces, the pages filled with pressed dead violets and love-lies-bleeding. 

..............

Yet somehow, Sherlock made it through his University days, and it was only towards the end that the drugs started to take hold again as he contemplated the empty chasm that was going down from Oxbridge for so many before him. This was where Greg Lestrade, purveyor of occasional coffee and eclair supplies to one Mycroft Holmes, came back into the picture. He would roll up to Mycroft's Cambridge rooms, or later, when he was back in London, to outside Vauxhall Cross. They would sit, overlooking the Cam or the Thames, and Greg would listen, and sometimes offer an opinion, but sometimes just sit. 

When Sherlock wobbled properly on the edge, the coke starting to master him rather than the opposite way round, Greg set Sherlock to work on dull but cleanup rate stats-spoiling cold cases. And in return, Greg became feted for his clear-up rate and Sherlock started to preen and look more alive and do a bit less coke each time Greg called him in.. 

He didn't kiss Mycroft again, Greg that is. He'd watched Mycroft untangle himself from his brother but he knew that Mycroft's heart was hollow and hurting. He would wait. He could wait and he wouldn't do anything to risk Sherlock's recovery. Not only because to do so would explode any chance he had with Mycroft, but because by this time, Greg cared about Sherlock in a paternal way. He'd been involved with many young people in his work, but none had touched him like Sherlock had.

...........

As to Mycroft, he watched as his younger brother steadily shut him out of all the areas of their lives where they had once been close. He monitored Sherlock's wellbeing, as best as he could, as well as the people he came into contact with. When they met, Sherlock was cruel and his comments barbed. That helped, in a way, as Mycroft could use these thorns to deflect the desire to tell Sherlock everything, to take him into his arms and lay him down just one more time. 

Like bereavement, the pain never goes away completely but you learn to live with it, and Mycroft was not a selfish man. It took a long time, years, but eventually he concluded that Sherlock needed someone to care for him, and that he would never, with his now exalted position in the Government, be permitted to be that person. Even now his meetings with Sherlock were monitored. Sherlock might grouse about Mycroft’s surveillance at 221B; the truth was that the cameras and bugs were not at Mycroft’s instigation, but to monitor Mycroft himself. But he pretended they were his. Sherlock didn't need to know otherwise.

Mycroft asked for soundings about various candidates for his brother, even though Sherlock was oblivious. They were all exceptional. Intelligent, handsome and openly gay. There was a sculptor whose own figure was worthy of a cast bronze. A yachtsman with tanned skin and the strength of ten. And several others, all unique and attractive. Somehow, though, none of them worked, and Mycroft couldn't work out why. 

He asked Greg what he was doing wrong. 

'You're trying to find someone perfect. But with the greatest of respect, you aren't perfect, but he loves you. So stop looking for perfect. Find someone who's messed-up like Sherlock is, but someone complementary. Someone who will need him, but also be needed by him. Someone to save him. God knows where you'll find him though, it's so ephemeral a wish list.'

……………

….Of course, in the end, they didn't need to find him. He came to them. His name was Dr John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was a cocky, chippy little shit of a man, handy with a pistol and less than open about his own sexuality. He was incredibly loyal, incredibly quickly. 

And he did save Sherlock Holmes. But Mycroft, looking on with both happiness and pain from the sidelines, knew that it was he who had saved Sherlock first.


End file.
